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POETIC MIRROR. 



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POETIC MIRROR ; 



OR, 



THE LIVING BARDS OF BRITAIN. 



Mopscu — Is it true, think you I 

Am. — Very true, tad but a month old. 

Shakspeare. 



PHILADELPHIA : 

PVBLJSHEDBY M. CAREY AND SON, CHESNUT-STREET, 
SOLD ALSO BY WELLS AND LILLY, BOSTON. 



1817. 




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ADVERTISEMENT, sf 



m 



The Editor claims no merit in the fol- 
lowing work, save that of having procu- 
red from the Authors the various Poems 
of which the volume is composed ; for, 
as to the arrangement, it is casual, and 
simply as the pieces came to hand. 

A number of years have now elapsed 
since he first conceived the idea of procu- 
ring something original from each of the 
principal living Bards of Britain, and pub- 
lishing those together, judging that such 
a w r ork, however small, could not fail of 
forming a curiosity in literature. On ap- 
plying to them all personally, or by letter, 
he found that the greater part of them en- 
tered into his views with more cordiality 
than he had reason to expect; and, after 
many delays and disappointments, he is 
at last enabled to give this volume to the 



iv ADVERTISEMENT. 

public. He regrets that there are many 
of the living Poets, whom he highly es- 
teems that have not yet complied with his 
request ; but as he is almost certain of 
something from each of them being forth- 
coming, he hopes, at no distant period, 
to be able to lay before the world another 
volume, at least more diversified than the 
present. 

With respect to those who have already 
so kindly supported him in the present un- 
dertaking, it behoves him to say nothing. 
The pages which follow will shew how 
well they have kept their words, and he 
takes this public opportunity of thanking 
them most cordially for their liberal assist- 
ance, to which he is conscious that his 
merits have in no degree entitled him. 



CONTENTS. 



The Guerilla . . . 


Lord Byron 


4 


Epistle to R. S**** . 


Walter Scott 


21 


Wat o' the Cleugh . 


Ibid. 


39 


The Stranger . .. . 


W. Wordsworth 


91 


The Flying Tailor . 


Ibid. 


107 


James Rigg • . . 


Ibid. 


119 


The Gude Greye Katt 


James Hogg 


131 


Isabelle . . ... 


S. T. Coleridge 


147 


The Cherub . . . 


Ibid. 


155 


Peter of Barnet . 


Robert Southey 


159 


The Curse of the Lau- 


7 




reate, Carmen Judi- 


> Ibid. 


167 


ciale ... 


J 




The Morning Star, or 


i 




the Steam-Boat of 


> J. Wilson 


177 


Alloa 


J 




Hymn to the Moon . 


Ibid. 


183 


The Stranded Ship . 


Ibid. 


187 



THE 

GUERILLA. 



B 



THE 

GUERILLA. 

vwvwvwvw 



1. 

Sore for the selfishness of men I wail,-— 
Scarce other motives human action guide ;— 
And sore I pity those of intellect frail, 
Who in aught else save their own strength confide* 
That might, that soul, with heaven alone allied, 
May all the casual gusts of fate defy ; 
But he who trusts in power or kingly pride, 
Well it behoves, like Britons, to rely 
On miscreant's doubtful aid, for thankless knaves 
to die ! 

2. 
It hath been said, and suiteth well my tale, 
That Spain's hot peasants danger strove to shun, 
Even when their foemen sorest did prevail, 
And ravaged every vale of Arragon. 
If there is wealth to gain or insult done, 
The proud and selfish Spaniard aught will dare ; 
Farther he cares not — feels not— -but anon 
Flies to his gleesome dance and jocund fare, 
And gives unto the winds his vows and patriot 
care. 



THE GUERILLA. 



3. 
Erewhile, in hamlet of full old regard, 
A goodly hind, Alayni hight, did won, 
His parents* healthful toil who daily shared 
And on each festal eve, when was begun 
The blithsome dance, and frolic, — there was 

none 
Who ruled the sport with such resistless sway ; 
And when, perchance, his will was lothly done, 
His froward mood displeasure did bewray ; 
Ne fail'd he then to thwart and contravene the 

play. 

4. 
Oh, me ! he was a hot and restless wight: 
No rival nor superior might he brook, 
In feat of deft activity or might, 
Nor even in mirth, or maiden's favouring look. 
At fall of evening, ofttimes he forsook 
His fathers home, some secret deeds to dare : 
Never was known the pathway that he took, 
Although his walks were watch'd with prying 

care ; 
But many doubtful stains his raiment daily bare. 

5. 
One maid he loved — young Kela of the dale, 
With passion vehement, and her alone : 
The foemen came — No tears could aught avail, 
For they were men of France, and never known 
To feel for pain or misery but their own. 
The village homes were plunder'd and despoiPd; 



THE GUERILLA. 5 

The beauteous village maids of Arragon 

They dragg'd from parent's home in anguish 

wild, 
To their voluptuous tents, to live in bondage vilde. 

6.. 
Kela, the loveliest of these mountain maids, 
Marot, the leader, for his own did claim ; 
All proffers of redemption he evades, 
Answering to all her plaints with words of shame; 
Loudly she wail'd and call'd Alayni's name, 
While he, aroused to madness and despair, 
Raved in such words as tongue did never frame, 
Smote his perturbed breast and tore his hair, 
And to have red revenge by Jesus' cross he 
sware, 

7. 
Fast did the frenzy seize the village crew ; 
Around Alayni thronged they each one ; 
Their maids, their wealth, had vanish'd from 

their view. 
Frantic they flew unto the altar-stone, 
And, kneeling round, with hands laid thereupon, 
They vow'd to God nor sleep nor rest to take 
Until the spoilers should by blood atone 
For the unholy pillage they did make ; 
So help them Christ in heaven, for youth and 

virtue's sake ! 

8. 
Man, maid, and matron, swore eternal feud 
Against the ruthless reavers and their race ; 
b 2 



6 THE GUERILLA. 

To madness changed their sullen lassitude, 
Forth did they spread abroad from place to place, 
Wrath in each voice and wildness on each face ; 
Aloud they cried for vengeance manifold ; 
Much magnified their scathe and sore disgrace. 
Each Arragonian, when the tale was told, 
Caught the wild flame in guise which pen may 
not unfold. 

9. 
From orchard and from field the peasants run. 
Even the grey sires refuse to stay behind ; 
Ten thousand bosoms pant beneath the sun, 
Ten thousand vows are borne upon the wind. 
All toward blood and massacre inclined 
The throng march'd forth — Alayni led them on. 
'Twas night — their foes were all to sloth resigned; 
For they had wassail'd deep, feasting upon 
The spoils and maiden charms of prlunder'd 
Arragon. 

10. 
They knew nor arms nor armed troop was 

nigh ; 
The hostile peasantry they laugh'd to scorn, 
Still were they lying there, and long shall lie ! 
What bands of spoilers waked not on the morn ! 
In one short hour an army was o'erborne, 
Slaughter'd like sheep, or in the flight cut down; 
Small was the number left to stray forlorn, 
Nor could they tell by whom they were o'er- 

thrown ; 
An army late there was, but army now was none. 



THE GUERILLA. 7 

11. 

Alayni with three comrades madly sped 
Unto the tent where hated Marot lay ; 
They found him lying on voluptuous bed. 
And in his arms his lovely hapless prey. 
Like one she seem'd who longed much for day ; 
Her moisten' d cheek no downy pillow prest, 
Her raven locks, dishevell'd and astray, 
Hung o'er her panting bosom, ill at rest! 
Which turned was away from her destroyer'^ 
breast. 

12. 
u Up, noble captain ! — up and taste our cheer ; 
A Spanish festival awaits thee nigh ; 
To lie voluptuously in slumber here 
Great shame it is, while souls so quickly fly 
From this to regions of a genial sky. 
Up, noble captain — thou must come away !" 
Alayni said, and raised him violently ; 
" Treason !" the captain cried, in wild dismay \ 
Albeit they loudly laugh'd at his forlorn array. 

13. 
Alayni dragg'd him forth unto the green, 
With burning hand entwisted in his hair ; 
Sore did he writhe, and loudly call'd, I ween, 
For kindred arms, but kindred none were there ; 
While him they mock'd with light and jocund air, 
And much did aggravate his woeful plight. 
Oh, it forsooth is grievous to declare 



¥ THE GUERILLA. 

How they did mangle that poor hapless wight ; 
Nor ceas'd their ruthless game till he was slain 
outright ! 

14. 
" Rush forth," Alayni said, « into the field, 
The work of death goes unresisted on ! 
Rush forth, my friends, our haughty foemen 

yield ; 
For me, the while, I shortly must begone 
To comfort my true love, but all alone, 
As meet it is, with her I would remain. 
Strong be your arms, your hearts to-night be 

stone, 
To-morroiv, soft as they were wont again ; 
God speed your patriot swords ! Haste forth into 

the plain." 

15. 
With torch in hand, and all with blood besprent, 
And looks that might the stoutest heart dismay, 
Forthwith he entered the dismal tent, 
Where, all forlorn, the lovely Kela lay ; 
He placed his torch ere word he deign'd to say, 
Then gazed on her sweet face with sorrow 

steep'd ; 
At first she clasped him in fondest way, 
But minding what she was, her blood ycrept, 
She hid her youthful face with both her hands, 

and wept. 

16. 
" Well may'st thou wail," he said, in deepest tone, 
« That face I loved above all earthly thing ! 



THE GUERILLA. ^ 

But never more shall smile beam thereupon, 
For thou art lost beyond recovering ! 
To life of scorn can thy young spirit cling, 
To kindred and to friends a lothful stain, 
A beacon set each lover's heart to wring ? 
It may not be- — a momentary pain — 
One penance undergone, and thou art pure 
again !" 

17. 
She look'd into his face, and there beheld 
The still unmoving darkness of his eye ; 
She thought of that could never be cancell'd, 
And lay in calm and sweet benignity ; 
Down by her side her arms outstretched lie, 
Her beauteous breast was fairer than the snow, 
And then with stifled sob and broken sigh 
Its fascinating mould was heaving so, — 
Never was movement seen so sweetly come and 
go! 

18. 
He drew his bloody poniard from his waist, 
And press'd against her breast its point of steel ; 
No single boon she to his ear address'd ! 
Calm did she lie as one who did not feel ! 
No shiver once did agony reveal ; 
Scarce did she move a finger by her side, 
Though her heart's blood around her did congeal ; 
With mild but steady look his face she eyed, 
And once upon her tongue his name in whisper 
died. 



Id THE GUERILLA, 



19. 

With gloomy mien and unrelenting heart, 
O'er her he hung and watch'd her life's decay; 
He mark'd the pulse's last convulsive start, 
And the sweet breath in fetches waste away. 
Just ere the last these words she did assay : 
" Now all is past — unblameable I die." 
Then her pale lips did close no more for aye, 
A dim blue haze set slowly o'er her eye, 
And low on purpled couch that mountain flower 
did lie. 

20. 
" Ay, it is so !" exclaimed he — " and 'tis well ! 
Even yet I would not wish thy life reprieved— 
Of thy firm soul shall future ages tell, 
Nor could thy spotless fame have been retriev'd, 
Oh ne'er to be wash'd out the stain received ! 
Fair sacrifice, thou hast not died in vain !" 
He prest the breast which now no longer heaved, 
And his warm lips to hers did closely strain ; 
But ah ! that passive lip — it did not kiss again ! 

21. 
" By this dear blood," he cried, " again I swear 
Revenge unslaked for ever to pursue ; 
Heaven was my witness how I held thee dear, 
And shall be witness what I'll dare for you 1" 
In the warm tide his arms he did imbue, 
And form'd a cross of blood upon his breast ; 
Then, maniac-like, forth to the fight he flew 
In Marot's gear and spangled helmet drest, 
And Kela's raven hair waved on it for a crest. 



THE GUERILLA. 



11 



; 22. 
Blood was his joy, and havoc was his meed, 
His direful rage no living foe might shun ; 
If there was bloody work, or ruthless deed, 
Forthwith by him that bloody work was done. 
Great was the spoil and booty that was won, 
But greater waited them of gold and store : 
A convoy came, such there was never known, 
Forth did they rush ten thousand men and more, 
And found the encumber'd foe on Ebro's. winding 
shore. 

23. 
Alayni led the van — on him they look'd 
As something more than man in prowess bold ; 
One to be fear'd he seem'd, but hardly brook' d ; 
A demon spirit not to be controll'd. 
Mounted on steed with bits and spurs of gold, 
No leader ever wore more martial air, 
No banner o'er his host was seen unroll'd, 
Save the red cross of blood his bosom bare, 
And waving in the wind the virgin's raven hair. 

24. 
O wild was the confusion and the throng, 
For the Guerillas wore the foe's array ; 
They mix'd with them and press'd their ranks 

among. 
Judge of their wonderment and sore dismay, 
When through their bodies pass'd in mortal way 
The scymitar or spear with ruthless blow ! 
Each deem'd himself of treason's hand the prey, 



12 THE GUERILLA. 

And wildly look'd upon his murderous foe ; — 
He knew the garb full well, the face he did not 

know. 

25. 
He who hath seen a ship triumphant sail, 
Full gaily on before the breeze's wing, 
High wooing in the clouds the fitful gale, 
Till, proudly bold and undistinguishing, 
Instant she rolleth with resistless swing 
Where two opposing tides together flow, 
While mariners to mast and rigging cling, 
And wot not how to steer or where to go, — 
He may conceive the scene, and he alone can 

know. 

26. 
O how Alayni joy'd in the deray 
And wild astonishment that seized the foe ! 
Like greedy wolf that gorges up his prey, 
Or hungry lion, did he onward go ; 
And over wounded warriors lying low, 
Spurning and writhing in most piteous case, 
Full joyful did he prance ; and loved it so, 
He rein'd his horse to rear upon the place, 
Causing his mailed hooves deform the human 
face ! 

27. 
They call'd for mercy and their arms threw down; 
But fierce Alayni when their plight he saw, 
He spurr'd, and laughing loud, rush'dthem upon, 
Gashing their bodies so, withouten awe 
Of warrior usance or of nature's law> — 



THE GUERILLA. 13 

They deem'd him demon in the shape of man, 
Ne could they from the massacre withdraw 
Who follow'd him, for still their eyes foreran 
Young Kela's coal-black hair y'streaming in the 
van. 

28. 
Fair were the dames who came with that array, 
With their proud lords the wealth of Spain to share, 
By the Guerillas rudely borne away : 
O how they 'gan with plaints to load the air ! 
Though youth and maiden inocence were there, 
Alayni purposed that very night 
On one huge pile to stretch their bodies fair, 
To watch the flame ascending fierce and bright, 
And with their dying throes feast his distemper'd 
sight. 

29. 
But Juan, a right brave and courteous youth, 
Dared to oppose the baleful sacrifice : 
Soon was he join'd by young and old ; for sooth 
He fear'd no frown from dark Alayni' s eyes, 
Who all alone had stood in this emprize, 
And forced was, though sore enraged, to yield. 
For beauteous captive then each warrior vies — 
O woful doom ! upon the sanguine field, 
Far better had their blood their first betrothment 
seal'd. 

30. 
Deep in an orange grove the feast was spread, 
No lovelier scene in nature could be seen ; 
C 



14 THE GUERILLA. 

The loaded boughs were bending over h^ad, 
Drooping with golden fruit and foliage green ; 
Fast flow'd the wine till every youthful mien 
Was lighted up to jocund mirth the while ; 
So gay their humour and retorts so keen, 
To captive's cheek they almost did beguile 
The languid lines of joy in momentary smile. 

31. 

But dark Alayni at their head still held 
His stern demeanour and his downcast eye, 
And when to listening or to speech compell'd, 
Red was his look and sullen the reply, 
As if his mind on incidents gone by 
Hung with a dry and hollow thirstiness, 
Or toil'd in trouble through futurity, 
Unable for one moment to repress 
The agony within, of spirit comfortless. 

32, 
The common woes that human kind belay, 
May by the pen or language be defined ; 
The sigh may tell of them, the tear betray, 
Like these, away they pass upon the wind : 
But that insatiate yearning of the mind 
Still preying, hungering, craving still to prey, 
Doom'd never bourn or resting-place to find ; 
O that must torture, undivulged for aye ! 
Save in the soul's still voice, the eye's perturbed 
ray. 

33. 
That voice inaudible, each spirit there 



THE GUERILLA. 15 

Seem'd to have heard or felt upon it creep ; 
When shot along Alayni's troubled glare, 
That instant all were hush'd in silence deep, 
As lightning's gleam that quivers down the steep, 
Searing the cheek of mirth and jollity ; 
Down sunk the eve — the captive maidens weep, 
The motley group right wearied are to see, 
By wassailing o'ercome and rampant revelry. 

34. 
Alayni rose and waved his hand on high, — 
All silent sat before that face so grim : 
" A health !" he cried, and follow'd with his eye 
Till every cup was fill'd unto the brim ; 
He beckon'd short — each look was turn'd on him, 
" Here's to the dead and those that soon must die." 
'Gan every eye and every brain to swim, 
As \ip they raised the cup, without reply, 
" Here's to the dead," they said, " and those that 
soon must die !" 

35. 
Alayni vanishes in darksome shade, 
Home to his cabin each Guerilla reels, 
Loaded with spoil, and leading captive maid, 
Or high-born dame, that sore degradance feels. 
In vain she supplicates, in vain she vain kneels, 
The high -flushed conquerors will take no nay : 
Deep is the sleep each weary eye that seals ; 
But there is one abroad till break of day, 
From whom the shuddering watch-dog growling 
turns away. 



16 THE GUERILLA. 



36. 
O follow not that dark perturbed form 
Down by the winding wave or shadowy tree* 
Whose mind would better suit the raving storm 
Than such a scene of mild tranquillity I 
He sees a form no other eye can see, 
He hears a voice no other ear can hear : 
A comely breast heaving with agony 
Is still before his eye, and in his ear 
Whispers a voice of woe to his moved spirit dear, 

37. 
Can that sweet voice induce to vengeful deed ? 
Can that unearthly stillness of the eye 
Arouse to murder or to suicide ? 
Oh, it is ever present, ever nigh I 
With blasphemy and cursing his reply 
Is fully fraught— -his eye-balls wildly stare, 
With horrid laughter hell he does defy ; 
Then turns his brow to heaven with fiend-like air, 
And flouts the eternal God in mockery of prayer ! 

38. 
Is the brain fever'd, or has baleful fiend 
Expell'd humanity and enter'd in, 
That thus his mouth and nostrils wide distend? 
Gasping he seems for breath, but cannot win 
So much of the night-air, that, cool and thin, 
Wanders o'er earth, yet will not quench the heat 
That burns his fervid panting chest within ; 
O Heaven ! can life-blood only that abate I 
Did'st thou the human frame for slaughter thus 
create ? 



THE GUERILLA. 17 



39. 

Millions have bled that sycophants may rule, 
Have fallen to dust and left no trace behind ; 
And yet we say that Heaven is merciful, 
And loves and cares for all the human kind ; 
And we will spread our hands and mouth the wind 
With fulsome thanks for all its tenderness. 
Ah me ! that man, preposterously blind, 
Should feel, hear, see, reflect, yet not the less 
Hope in his hopeless state of abject nothingness ! 

40. 
Poor worm ! to death, doubt, and despondence 

born, 
How blest art thou entrusting Providence ! 
Oh, thou hast nought to dread, though all forlorn ! 
Thou hast a guardian, a sure defence ! 
There rest, environed in Omnipotence, 

In safety rest Alas ! and woe is me, 

That tyrant should, on any vague pretence, 
Drunkard, or madman, do away with thee, 
Thou thing of high regard ! — of immortality ! 

41. 
That live-long night by village mansion sped, 
A darkling ruffian all in blood besmear'd, 
With breath repress'd, with swift and silent tread, 
To every dwelling, every couch he near'd, — 
No guardian angel of the fair appear'd. 
Heaven wept in copious dews — uprose the day : 
What horrors brain of wakening lover sear'd, 

c 2 



18 THE GUERILLA. 

When in his arms he found the gelid clay, 

O r roll'd from his embrace the sever'd head away 



42. 
Oh many a faultless dame was slain that night, 
That none might 'scape in lawless couch that lay ; 
Like the sweet children of the Bethlehemite, 
Who died that one might not escape away : 
Great pity both ! — But, fully to repay 
To men the waste of children's guiltless blood, 
Myriads of benefits in fair array 
From thence have sprung, the yearning spirit's 

food — 
Such base beginning sure could not but end in 

good. 

43. 
From this night-slaughter benefits were few, 
Save to the maidens who full long had pined ; 
Of this be well assured, that all is true 
By bloated priestcraft evermore defined 
Of wisdom in all things by Heaven design'd. 
But to my tale — O many a weeping eye. 
And much astonishment and anger reign'd, 
O'er all Cinea's vale, where hamlets lie 
Thick as the diamond sparks in Autumn's mid- 
night sky. 

44. 
Dark moved the vale with many a funeral train, 
O'er many a sepulchre the tear was shed ; 
For who can bear to look on woman slain — 
The breast of comeliness and beauteous head, 



THE GUERILLA. 13 

That nought but love and kindness cherished, 
Dishonour'd and consign'dto cheerless gloom ? — 
Can see the flower of nature lowly laid, 
From hand that should have guarded meet her 

doom 
In land of life and beauty never more to bloom ? 

45. 
Yet* saving Juan, who in manly wise 
Withstood the shameful deed, no man was slain ; 
His bosom was upripp'd in woeful guise, 
And from its habitance his heart was ta'en : 
Well did they know the source of all their pain, 
Well knew the savage hand that this had done. 
They sought Alayni, but they sought in vain : 
His game of death was o'er, and he was gone 
Far from his native vale 'mid bloodier scenes to 
won. 

46. 
I've heard of one, of whom have many heard, 
That on Segovia's mountains roam'd a while, 
A savage hero of most strange regard, 
On whose dark visage never beam'd a smile, 
Whose beard was never trimm'd, whose ruthless 

toil 
Of slaughter only with existence ceased, 
Who died in maniac guise 'mid bloody broil, 
Laughing aloud, yet pressing to his breast 
A tiar of raven hair which every morn he kiss'd. 

47. 
It was Alayni — dost thou wail his case ? — 
Beloved unhappy, restless unbeloved. 



20 THE GUERILLA. 

Oh, there are minds that not for happiness 

Were framed here nor hereafter, who ne'er proved 

A joy, save in some object far removed, 

Who leave with loathing that they longed to win, 

That evermore to that desired hath roved, 

While the insatiate gnawing is within, 

And happiness for aye beginning to begin. 



EPISTLE TO MR. R. S****. 



EPISTLE TO MR. R. S***. 



vwwvvwvw 



Melrose^ Teviotdale^ August 3. 

Dear S****, while the southern breeze 
Floats, fresh'ning, from the upland leas, 
Whispering of Autumn's mellow spoils 
And jovial sports and grateful toils, 
Awakening in the soften'd breast 
Regrets and wishes long supprest, 
O, come with me once more to hail 
The scented heath, the sheafy vale, 
The hills and streams of Teviotdale. 
'Tis but a parting pilgrimage 
To save from Time's destroying rage, 
And changeful Fortune's withering blast, 
The hallow'd pictures of the past. 
And though my steps have lingered long 
From scenes that prompt the poet's song 
Till almost in my heart has died 
The flame that giow'd with boyish pride, 
For this I'll wake once more the strain, 
Which else had ne'er been waked again. 
And, there, we'll woo the visions wild 
Which first on opening fancy smiled, 



24 EPISTLE TO R. s****» 

By breezy dawn, by quiet noon 
Beneath the bright broad harvest moon, 
Or 'midst the mystic shadows dim 
Which round the car of Twilight swim ; 
While dreams of glory spring to birth, 
More lovely than the forms of earth. 

Then come, dear comrade ! welcome still 
In every change of good or ill, 
Whom young affection's wishes claim, 
And friendship ever finds the same — 
Awake with all thy flow of mind, 
With fancy bright and feelings kind, 
And tune with me the rambling lay 
To cheer us on our mountain way. 

Say, shall we wander where the swain, 
Bent o'er his staff, surveys the plain, 
With lyart cheeks and locks of grey, 
Like patriarch of the olden day ? — 
Around him ply the reaper band, 
With lightsome heart and eager hand, 
And mirth and music cheer the toil, — 
While sheaves that stud the russet soil, 
And sickles gleaming in the sun, 
Tell jocund Autumn is begun. 

How gay the scenes of harvest morn 
Where Ceres pours her plenteous horn — 
The hind's hoarse cry from loading car, 
The voice of laughter from afar, 
The placid master's sober joy, 
The frolic of the thoughtless boy — 



EPISTLE TO R. s****. 25 

Cold is the heart when charms like these 
Have lost their genial power to please ! 
But yet, my friend, there is an hour 
(Oft has thy bosom own'd its power) 
When the full heart, in pensive tone, 
Sighs for a scene more wild and lone. 
Oh then, more sweet on Scotland's shore 
The beetling cliff, the breaker's roar, 
Or moorland waste, whei'e all is still, 
Save wheeling plover's whistle shrill, — 
More sweet the seat by ancient stone, 
Or tree with lichens overgrown, 
Than richest bower that autumn yields, 
Midst merry England's cultured fields- 
Then, let our pilgrim footsteps seek 
Old Cheviot's pathless mossy peak ; 
For there the mountain Spirit still 
Lingers around the lonely hill, 
To guard his wizard grottoes hoar, 
Where Cimbrian sages dwelt of yore ; 
Or, shrouded in his robes of mist, 
Ascends the mountain's shaggy breast, 
To seize his fearful seat — upon 
The elf-enchanted Hanging Stone, — 
And count the kindred streams that stray 
Through the broad regions of his sway 1 
Fair sister streams that wend afar 
By bloomy bank cr barren scaur, 
Now hidden by the clustering brake, 
Now lost amid the mountain lake, 
Now clasping, with protective sweep, 
Some mouldering castle's moated steep \ 
D 



26 EPISTLE TO R. s****. 

Till, issuing from the uplands brown, 
Fair rolls each flood by tower and town y 
The hills recede, and on the sight 
Swell the bold rivers broad and bright. 
The eye — the fancy almost fails 
To trace them through their thousand vales, 
Winding these Border hills among, 
(The boast of chivalry and song) 
From B*****t's banks of softest green 
To the rude verge of dark Lochskene. — 
'Tis a heart-stirring sight to view, 
Far to the westward stretching blue, 
That frontier ridge, which erst defied 
Th' invader's march, th' oppressor's pride - t 
The bloody field, for many an age, 
Of rival nations' wasteful rage ; 
In later times a refuge given 
To exiles in the cause of Heaven. 

Far inland, where the mountain crest 
O'erlooks the waters of the west, 
And, 'midst the moorland wilderness, 
Dark moss-cleughs form a drear recess, 
Curtain'd with ceaseless mists which feed 
The sources of the Clyde and Tweed, — 
There injured Scotland's patriot band 
For faith and freedom made their stand, 
When traitor kings, who basely sold 
Their country's fame for Gallic gold, — 
Too abject o'er the free to reign, — 
Warn'd by a father's fate in vain, — 
In bigot fury, trampled down 
The race who oft preserved their crown.— 



EPISTLE TO R. s****. 27 

There, worthy of his masters, came 
The despots' champion, bloody Graham, 
To stain for aye a warrior's sword, 
And lead a fierce, though fawning horde. 
The human bloodhounds of the earth, 
To hunt the peasant from his hearth ! 
— Tyrants : could not misfortune teach, 
That man has rights beyond your reach ? 
Thought ye the torture and the stake 
Could that intrepid spirit break, 
Which even in woman's breast withstood 
The terrors of the fire and flood ! 
Yes~though the sceptic's tongue deride 
Those martyrs who for conscience died, — 
Though modish history blight their fame, 
And sneering courtiers hoot the name 
Of men who dared alone be free 
Amidst a nation's slavery, — 
Yet long for them the poet's lyre 
Shall wake its notes of heavenly fire ; 
Their names shall nerve the patriot's hand, 
Upraised to save a sinking land ; 
And piety shall learn to burn 
With holier transports o'er their urn ! 

But now, all sterner thoughts forgot, 
Peace broods upon the peasant's cot ; 
And if tradition still prolongs 
The memory of his father's wrongs, 
'Tis but the grateful thought that borrows 
A blessing from departed sorrows. — 
How lovely seems the simple vale 
Where lives our sire's heroic tale ! 



28 EPISTLE TO R. S****. 

The mossy pass, the mountain flood- 
Still hallow'd by the patriot's blood, — 
The rocky cavern, once his tent, 
And now his deathless monument, 
Rehearsing to the kindling thought 
Was Faith inspired and Valour wrought I 
Oh, ne'er shall he whose ardent prime 
What foster'd in the freeman's clime, 
Though doomed to seek a distant strand, 
Forget his glorious native land — 
Forget — 'mid Brahma's blood- stain'd groves- 
These sacred scenes of youthful loves ! 
Sequester'd haunts — so still — so fair, 
That holy Faith might worship there, 
And Error weep away her stains, 
And dark Remorse forget his pains ; 
And homeless hearts by fortune tost, 
Or early hopeless passion crost, 
Regain the peace they long had lost ! 

Then let us roam that lovely land, 
Ry classic Teviot's sylvan strand, 
By Yair and Flora's pathless glens, 
And haunted Yarrow's dreary dens, 
Till, with far circling steps, we hail 
Thy native B*****t's broomy vale, 
And reach my boyhood's birchen bowers 
'Mong C***'s cottages and towers. 

C*** ! like voice of years gone by, 
I hear thy mountain-melody ! — 
It comes with long forgotten dreams, 
Once cherish'd by thy winding streams, 



EPISTLE TO R. S****. 29 

And sings of schoolboy-rambles free, 
And heart-felt young hilarity ! 
I see the moss-grown turrets hoar 
Dim-gleaming on thy woodland shore, 
Where oft, apart from vulgar eye, 
I loved at summer tide to lie, 
Abandoned to the witching sway 
Of some old bard's heroic lay, 
Or poring o'er the immortal story 
Of Roman and of Grecian glory. 
Yet aye One Minstrel charm'd me more 
Than all I learn'd of classic lore, 
Or war and beauty, gaily blent 
In pride of knightly tournament, 
Even He, in rustic verse, who told 
Of Scotland's champion — Wallace bold — 
Of Scotland's ancient " luve and lee," 
And Southron's coward treachery ! 
And oft I conn'd that harper's page 
With old hereditary rage, 
Till I have wept, in bitter mood, 
That now no more in English blood, 
My country's falchion might atone 
The warrior's fall and widow's moan ! 
Or, 'neath the oak's broad-bending shade, 
With half shut eye-lids musing laid, 
Weaving in fancy's tissue strange 
The shapeless visions of revenge, 
I conjured back the past again — 
The marshall'd bands, the battle-plain, 
The Border slogan's pealing shout, 
The shock, the tumult, and the rout, 
Victorious Scotland's bugle-blast, 
And charging knights that hurry past 5 
d 2 



30 EPISTLE TO R. s*****. 

Till down the dim-withdrawing vale 
I seem'd to see their glancing mail, 
And hear the fleet barb's furious tramp 
Re-echoed from yon ancient camp. 

But, chief, when summer twilight mild 
Drew her dim curtain o'er the wild, 
I loved beside that ruin grey 
To watch the fading gleam of day. 
And though, perchance, with secret dread 
I heard the bat flit round my head, 
While winds that waved the long lank grass, 
With sound unearthly seem'd to pass, 
Yet with a pleasing horror fell 
Upon my heart the thrilling spell ; 
For all that met the eye or ear 
Was still so pure and peaceful here, 
I deem'd no evil might intrude 
Within its sacred solitude. — 
Still vivid memory can recall 
The figure of each shatter'd wall ; 
The aged trees all hoar with moss, 
Low bending o'er the sullen fosse ; 
The rushing of the mountain flood ; 
The cushat's cooing in the wood ; 
The rooks that o'er the turrets sail ; 
The lonely curlew's distant wail, 
The flocks that high on H****m rest ; 
The glories of the glowing west. 

And, tinged with that departing sun, 
To fancy's eye arises dun, 



BP1STLE TO R. s*****. SI 

A hill, along whose dusky brow, 

Yet unprofaned by rustic plough, 

The shaggy gorse and brown heath wave 

O'er many a nameless warrior's grave. 

— Yon peak, of yore, which wide and far 

Gleam'd like the wakeful eye of war, 

And oft with warning flame and smoke, 

Ten thousand spears to battle woke, 

Now down each subject glen descries 

Blue wreaths from quiet hamlets rise, 

To where, soft fading on the eye, 

Tweed's cultured banks in beauty lie, 

Wide waving with a flood of grain 

From Eildon to the eastern main. 

— Oft from yon height I loved to mark, 

Soon as the morning roused the lark, 

And woodlands raised their raptured hymn, 

That land of glory spreading dim ; 

While slowly up th' awakening dale 

The mists withdrew their fleecy veil, 

And tower, and wood, and winding stream, 

Were brightening in the golden beam. 

— Yet where the westward shadows fell 

My eye with fonder gaze would dwell, 

Though wild the view, and brown and bare ; 

Nor castled halls, nor hamlets fair, 

Nor range of sheltering woods, were there — 

To give expression to the scene. 

There, stood a simple home, — where swells 

The meadow sward to moory fells, — 

A rural dwelling thatch'd and warm, 

Such as might suit the upland farm. 

A honey-suckle clasp'd the sash, 



32 EPISTLl TO R. S *****. 

Half-shaded by the giant ash ; 
And there the wall-spread apple tree 
Gave its white blossoms to the bee, 
Beside the hop-bower's twisted shade, 
Where age reclined and childhood play'd. 
Below, the silvery willows shook 
Their tresses o'er a rambling brook, 
That gamboli'd 'mong its banks ©f broom, 
Till lost in L*****'s haunted gloom. 
— Methinks I hear its gurgling dash, 
Beside yon sheltering clump of ash, 
Which screens below the boiling pool 
With pebbled bottom clear and cool, 
Where often from the shelving brim 
We launch'd on sedgy sheaf to swim. 

From Teviot's lovelier dales remote 
The traveller's glance would scarcely note 
That narrow valley, or espy 
Aught there to win his wandering eye; 
But youthful memory pictures still 
Each bush and stone that speck'd the hill ; 
The braes w T ith tangled copsewood green ; 
The mossy cliffs that rose between ; 
The fern that fringed each fairy nook ; 
The mottled mead ; the mazy brook, 
That, underneath its ozier shade, 
Still to the wild its music made. 

Among the flowers and tedded hay 
I see an elfin band at play ; 
Blithe swinging on the green-wood bough, 
Or guiding mimic wain and plough ; 



EPISTLE TO R. s*****. 33 

Intent a summer booth to build, 
Or tilling each his tiny field ; — 
Or, proudly ranged in martial rank, 
They muster on the mossy bank, 
With rushy helm and sword of sedge, 
A bloodless Border war to wage. 

Anon, with lapse of circling years, 
In other guise that group appears, 
As childhood's gamesome mood gives place 
To manly thought and maiden grace. 
Beneath yon rock with lichens hoar, 
Of fabled fays the haunt of yore, 
They sit beside the Verter spring ;— 
I hear below winds whispering 
The mournful ballad's simple strain ; 
Or breathing flute awakes again 
The echoes of each sylvan grot, 
With many a sweetly-melting note. 

Or from the chambers of the north 
Comes Winter with his tempests forth ? 
Athwart the shivering glebe to fling 
The flaky snow-drift from his wing, 
Shrouding, with many a fleecy fold, 
The bosky dell and battle wold- 
While, banish'd from his half-plough'd field, 
The hind essays the flail to wield, 
And o'er the hills, the perilous road 
Alone by shepherd's foot is trode, 
Who gathers on the furzy heath 
His flocks dug from the smothering wreath — 
Then was it more than joy to meet 



34 EPISTLE TO R. s*****. 

With long-lov'd friends in that retreat ; — 

And still that valley's rude recess 

Could charm in winter's wildest dress ; 

Whether the mountain speat has drown'd 

With mingling floods the meadow ground, 

And through their hundred sluices break 

The headlong currents to the Lake, — 

Or the choked torrent's deafen'd flow 

Is hush'd in crystal caves below, 

And down the cliffs the trickling rills 

Congeal in column'd icicles. 

But when day's hasty steps retire, 

Still sweeter by the blazing fire 

In that low parlour's narrow bound 

To draw the social circle round ; 

Where no unwelcome step intrudes 

To check gay humour's changeful moods. 

Round flows the merry jest, — the tale 

Of maiden cloister in the dale, 

Of weeping spirit of the glen, 

Of monster-snake of Wormeden ; 

Of ladies doom'd by Rome's command 

To sift the church-yard mound of sand, 

By penance drear to wash away 

Foul murder's dire anathema. 

Or graver history's graceful page, 

Or traveller's venturous toils engage ; 

Or poet's lay the bosom warms 

With virtue's praise and nature's charms, 

And faithful loves and feats of arms. 

— And 'midst that friendly circle now 

I mark a youth with open brow, 

And thoughtful blue eyes beaming mild, 



EPISTLE TO R. s*****. 35 

And temples wreath'd with clusters wild 
Of light-brown hair ! — The pensive grace 
Upon his features, seems the trace 
Of thought more tender and refined 
Than dawns upon the vulgar mind. 
But oft across his blooming cheek 
Flushes a quick and hectic streak, 
Like that which in an Indian sky, 
Though cloudless, tells of danger nigh — 
Danger — to tear from life and fame 
The latest of a gentle name ! 

How fearful to affection's view 

That blush more bright than beauty's hue ! 

Where, sad as cypress wreath, the rose 

Amid consumption's ruin glows, 

And decks with gay and treacherous bloom 

The untimely passage to the tomb ! — 



Now scatter'd far the smiling flowers 
That grew around these rustic bowers- 
Ungentle hearts and strangers rude 
Have pass'd along its solitude ; 
The heart is cold — the walls are bare 
That heard my grandsire's evening prayer,— 
Gone — even the trees he planted there ! 
Yet still, dear Friend, methinks 'twere sweet 
To trace once more that loved retreat- 
Still, there, where'er my footsteps roam, 
" My heart, untravell'd," finds a home ! 
For 'midst these border mountains blue, 



36 EPISTLE TO r. S *****. 

And vales receding from the view, 

And lonely lakes, and misty fells, 

Some nameless charm for ever dwells — 

Some spirit that again can raise 

The visions of departed days, 

And thoughts unutter'd — undefined-* 

That gleam'd across my infant mind. 

lovely was the blest controul 
Which came like music o'er my soul, 
While there, — a rude untutor'd boy, 
With heart tuned high to Nature's joy, 
Subdued by Beauty's winning form, 

Or kindling 'midst the mountain storm, — 

Alive to feeling's gentle smart, 

Which wakes but does not waste the heart,- 

1 dreamt not of the workings deep 
Of wilder passions yet asleep. — 

Long from these native haunts estranged, 
My home but not my heart is changed— 
Amidst the city's feverish stir 
*Tis still a mountain wanderer ! 
And though (if bodings be not vain) 
Far other roamings yet remain, 
In climes where, 'mid the unwonted vales, 
No early friend the wanderer hails r 
Nor well-known hills arise to bless 
His walks of pensive loneliness ; 
Yet still shall fancy haunt with you 
Thes - scenes beloved when life was new, 
And oft with tender zeal ixturn 
By yon deserted tomb to mourn ; — 
For oh, whate'er that lot may be 
In Fate's dark book reserved for me, 



EPISTLE TO R. s*****. 37 

I feel that nought in later life, . 
Ambition's pride, or passion's strife, 
Or favouring fortune's boundless grasp, 
This bosom with a tie can clasp, 
So strong— so sacred — as endears 
These relics of our earliest years. 



WAT 0' THE CLEUCH. 



WAT O' THE CLEtJCH. 



CANTO FIRST. 



WWW WWW* 



1. 

Wat o* the Cleuch came down through the 

dale, 
In helmet and hauberk of glistening mail ; 
Full proudly he came on his berry-black steed, 
Caparison'd, belted for warrior deed. 
O bold was the bearing, and brisk the career, 
And broad was the cuirass and long was the spear, 
And tall was the plume that waved over the brow 
Of that dark reckless borderer, Wat o' the 

Cleuch. 

2. 
His housing, the buck's hide, of rude massy fold, 
Was tassell'd and tufted with trappings of gold ; 
The henchman was stalworth his buckler that 

bore; 
He had bowmen behind him, and billmen before ; 
He had Bellenden, Thorleshope, Reddleford- 

green, 
And Hab o' the Swire, and Jock of Poldean ; 
e 2 



42 WAT ©' THE OLEUCH. 

And Whitstone, and Halston, and hard-riding 

Hugh, 
Were all at the back of bold Wato' the Cleuch. 

3. 
As Wat o' the Cleuch came down through the 

dale, 
The hinds stood aghast and the maidens grew 

pale, 
The ladies to casement and pallisade ran, 
The vassals to loop-hole and low barbican, 
And saw the bold borderers trooping along, 
Each crooning his war-note or gathering-song ; 
O many a rosy cheek changed its hue 
When sounded the slogan of Wat o' the Cleuch ! 

4. 
As downward they past by the Jed and the Roule, 
The monk took his crozier, his cord, and his 

cowl, 
And kneel'd to the Virgin with book and with 

bead, 
And said Ave-Maria and mutter'd his creed, 
And loudly invoked, as he clasped the rood, 
Saint Withold, Saint Waldave, Saint Clare, and 

Saint Jude ! 
He dreaded the Devil, to give him his due, 
But held him as nothing to Wato' the Cleuch. 

5. 

The abbot and monks of Jedwort well knew 

When there was aught to gain, 
That neither quoif, nor bead, nor book, 






CANTO FIRST. 43 

Nor penitential whine and look, 
That stern marauder e'er would brook, 

He spurn'd them with disdain ; 
That late at Eisdon he had been 
On evening of Saint Valantine, 
And there had wrought much wreck and dole, 
Had call'd the abbot beast and fool, 
And all his horde a nest of knaves, 
Of sordid, selfish, venal slaves ; 
Had broke their croziers o'er their heads, 
And burnt their books, and sow'd their beads, 
Taken, bot leave, their hoarded pelf, 
And whatsoever pleased himself; 
And never had sin of the deepest hue, 
Nor Howard nor Scroop with their foraying crew, 
E'er frighten'd our abbot like Wat o' the Cleuch. 

6. 
Wat o' the Cleuch he lighted down, 
He knock'd at the gate, but answer had none ; 
He knock'd again with thundering din, 
At length he heard a stir within. 
u Who raps so loud !" a voice *gan cry. 
« Swith ! open the door,*' said Wat, " 'tis IP 
Then some ran here and some ran there, 
They whisper'd and mutter'd words of prayer: 

" Come quick !" cried Wat, and then 
The door was oped by an abbot old, 
With bushy beard and ronkled mould, 

Who scarce could tears restrain ; 
O how he groan'd and heaved the sigh 
As the stark and stalwart chief strode by ; 
And if his prayer then we knew, 
'Twas not for grace to Wat o' the Cleuch. 



44 WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 



r. 

Wat deign'd no heed, but onward strode 
To the chancel of the house of God; 
He threw up his visor and helm to boot ; 
He wiped his brow and he look'd about, 
And fix'd his eye on where a crowd 
Of haggard friars trembling stood ; 

Then in deliberate way 
His mighty two-hand sword he drew ; 
'Twas broad and long, but of a hue 

111 suited fears to stay. 
For segments deep of blacken'd red 
Its polish'd side half covered, 
As if half-way through many a head 

It late had found its way. 

8. 
What frame might brook that weapon's fall ! 
For though the chief like oak was tall, 
It reach'd so high, it swung so low, 
It gall'd his shoulder and his toe ; 
And when that giant sword he drew 
His arm was bent around his brow ; 
When forth it came, the sooth to say, 
It came with such resistless sway, 
Woe to the wight stood in its way ! 
And flicker'd in the light of heaven 
Like streamer of the burning levin. 

9. 
Wat drew that sword, I said before, 
He gave it one brandish and no more ; 



CANTO FIRST. 46 

It was enough — quick might you see 
Each monk, each friar, on his knee, 
Kissing the cross, and calling loud, 
O mercy ! mercy ! spare our blood, 
For sake of him that died on rood ! 

10. 
Wat gave his sword a swing behind, 
It whistled in the convent wind 
With ireful sound, and by ill luck 
Against the architrave it struck, 
Just where Saint Peter held the key 
Forth to the sainted Gregory. 
Down came th' apostle from the wall, 
The pope, the key, and pedestal. 
Wat look'd behind, he look'd before, 
And prostrate on the convent floor 
Beheld the canonized compeers 
Amid their rueful worshippers ; 
Longer the scene he could not brook, 
He laugh'd till all the rafters shook. 

11. 
The grovelling monks upraised the head 
Like martyrs rising from the dead ; 
Around they stared in dubious way, 
And wist not what to think or say. 
" Rise up, my friends — for friends we are, 
Why thus give way to idle fear ? 

All that of you I crave 
Is your best blessing — 'tis a task 
That you behoves — that boon I ask, 

Ay, and that boon I'll have." 



46 WAT O* THE CLEUCH. 

" That thou shalt have," the sire replied, 
" My worthy son, thy country's pride, 
In peace approved, in danger tried; 

It well becomes the brave 
To live, and walk thus holily ; 
Kneel down, Sir Knight, upon thy knee, 

My blessing thou shalt have." 

12. 

" Beshrew thy heart !" said Wat in wrath, 
" If that I do ; for, in good faith, 
Little I reck of idle breath, 

Of mass or breviary : 
Oft have I heard my grandam tell 
When in our lady's gay chapel 
The consecrated torrent fell 

From beadsman's hand on me, 
How that I look'd with such a frown, 
As if I'd knock the dotard down 
Who that unwelcome tide had thrown 

So disrespectfully. 
Ne'er since that day, when weetless, young, 
God shield the right and ward the wrong ! 
Have I from priest or beadsman's tongue 

Had benedicite. 

13. 
" But, sire, I crave and claim withal 
A blessing more substantial; 
Dost thou not see that my array 
Has march'd a rough and weary way, 
Even from the Cleuch since break of day ? 
No food nor fare for us is left, 



CANTO FIRST. 47 

The land is harried and bereft 

So wholly by the Southern host 

That now lies camped on Lothian coast, 

That, save what sanctuary contains, 

Nor flock, nor herd, nor store remains. 

Now, abbot, thou may'st well perceive 

The blessing which from thee we crave/* 

14. 
f Forage ! forage !" the abbot cried, 

Glad so to 'scape was he ; 
Forth rush'd the monks, and fast and wide, 
Even to the Baillie's ingle side, 

Carried their reavery. 
Some came with bread, and some with ale, 
Some came with butter, cheese, and kail, 
And some with doughty cogs of brose, 
The dole and dread of Scotland's foes ! 
And, — gladsome sight to warrior's eye, — 
Came in the haggies, reeking high 
In fair and full rotundity. 
The Bull-trout, Pike, and Grayling blue, 
The Salmon of the silvery hue, 
With Wood-cock, Plover, and Curlew; 
The Heath-fowl of the mountain high, 
With downy leg and scarlet eye, 
The Coney, Capercaile, and Hare, 
And every forest bird was there ; 
With many snared the lakes among, 
Numberless birds unknown to song, 
If not to Bewick and Buffon. 



48 WAT O 5 THE CLEUCH. 



15. 

Such only may and will I note, 

As suiteth rythm, and rhyme, and rote ; 

Such as the Grebe and Gullimote, 

The Diver from Saint Mary's pool, 

The Avoset, and Galinule, 

The Bilcock, Egret, Ruff, the Mew, 

The Whimbrel, and the Heronsheugh, 

The Stint, the Phalarope, and Tern, 

The Mergenser, and Midnight Hern, 

The Dunlin, Wagel, Piper-cock, 

The Shoveller or Kellutock, 

The Imber, from broad Alemore lake, 

The Tarroch, Tough, and Kittiwake ; 

These all were got, and all brought there, 

It suits not how, it boots not where. 

16. 
And there was kid from Cocket-dale, 
And mutton from the banks of Kaile, 
With head of ox, and ham of steer, 
And rib of roe, and haunch of deer, 
All placed before the mountaineer. 

17. 
Placed did I say ? Yes, by the rood, 
'Twas placed — but there not long it stood. 
Vanish'd the beef with equal speed 
As snow-ball toss'd into the Tweed ; 
The forest fowls of flavour high 
Faded in twinkling of an eye ; 
The mutton in a breath was gone, 



CANTO FIRST. 49 

Down went the sea-birds, skin and bone, 
And of the haggies there was none. 

18. 
The monks stood by with silent gaze, 
Gaping in token of amaze, 
Till up spoke Halbert of the Swire, 
A son that not disgraced his sire ; 
Of Harden's doughty race was he, 
And thus he spoke full pleasantlie : 
" What would you think, my master dear, 
For me I judge it meet and clear 
That we and ours should winter here V s 
With stifled groans the friars shook, 
Eye turn'd on eye with speaking look ; 
That jest their stomachs could not brook. 

19. 
u Yes," cried the chief, and, turning, said 
To Abbot John, who inly prayed, 
u Your guerdon worse than that will be ; 
Father, I have not done with thee." 
A sudden and a hectic glow 
Soon faded on the Abbot's brow, 
Like that which dies the mountain's form. 
The prelude of descending storm ; 
Next a dim yellow o'er it swept, 
The hair upon his temples crept ; 
Like abbot chisell'd out of stone 
He sat, all still and woe-begone, 
While thus the Mountain Chief went on. 

F 



50 WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 

20. 

" Father, thou knowest our mortal foe 
Of late has wrought us mickle woe, 
Hath over-run the Border land 
With fire, with foray, and with brand, 
That still their bands are facing north, 
And wasting even the shores of Forth, 
While their huge stores the castle fill 
Of Roxburgh, deem'd impregnable ; 
Could that by force or fraud be won, 
Quick from our country they must run. 
Though all unequal be the strife, 
To win that place, for death or life, 
Here am I come, right joyfully ; 
But much — nay, all, depends on thee. 
Either with warriors thou must wend, 
Their motions guide, their strife attend, 
Or teach to these, my friends, and me, 
The whole cant of hypocrisy ; 
To con o'er chaplet, prayers to rea^, j 
To hand the chalice, book, and bead - t 
Else as our leader thou art pledged, 
For thou and thine art privileged." 

21. 
" In either case," the abbot said, 
And as he spoke he shook his head, 
" In either case, Sir Knight, for me 
Full hard, I ween, the task will be ; 
But off these weeds of warrior trim, 
And don the cowl and sackcloth grim* 



GANTO FIRST. 51 

Thy panoply of steel resign, 

That stark unyielding brigandine, 

And when thou'rt clothed in weeds of woe 

Soon will I tell thee ay or no, 

Whether with scrap of creed and mass 

As genuine beadsman thou may'st pass." 

22. 
Off went the cuishes and the greaves, 
Jangled aloud the chained sleeves, 
Down went the helm and plumage tall, 
The corslet rattles on the wall, 
And Wat, whose very meed was scathe. 
He felt so light and free to breathe, 
That swift as fire he flew upon 
A friar of stupendous bone, 
To reave his robes in grappling strife— 
Without a stir Wat hated life ; 
He caught the friar by the nape, 
Who stared at first with ghastly gape ; 
But, prick'd by pain, enroused by spleen, 
Or memory what he once had been, 
He struck the chief a blow so rude 
It made him stagger where he stood, 
While mouth and nose gush'd red with blood. 

23. 
The mountain warriors laugh'd outright, 
The monks stood trembling with affright, 
They knew not Wat's supreme delight : 
Up to the sullen friar he came 
And ask'd his lineage and his name. 



52 WAT o' THE CLEUCH. 

" What boots it you ?" he stern replied, 
And flung his cumbrous frock aside, 
" Think'st thou I blench at mortal frown ? 
I'm neither come of thief nor loun, 
And that is more, 'twixt you and I, 
Than some can say without a lie." 

24. 
The dark chief gave delighted grin, 
And wiped the blood-clots from his chin : 
" Man, thou art brother of my heart,*' 
He said, " and hence we shall not part ; 
If thou not warrior turn with me, 
I'll turn a saint and dwell with thee ; 
Or priest, or layman, friend, or foe, 
I love a man can lend a blow. 
Give me thy hand — beshrew my blood 
If I could deem that 'neath a hood 
Was brow so stern, or eye so dark, 
Or heart so true, or arm so stark ; 
Lend me thy cowl and sober weed 
Until my noviceship be sped." 

25. 
Now, gentle listener to my geste, 
Restrain thy mirth if that thou may'st ; 
111 suits it knight, or dame, or maid, 
To laugh at truth when truth is said ; 
But sooth, such figure and such look 
As Wat with crosier and with book, 
Such rude unhypocritic mien, 
No churchman's eye had ever seen ; 



CANTO FIRST. $3 

And, when essaying prayer to read 

On book, by him ne'er opened, 

His uncouth air and voice of thundering, 

Misnaming, crossing, mixing, blundering, — 

No living man the scene could stand, 

Each eye was shaded with the hand. 

26. 
« Now, by the heaven," said Abbot John, 
u And all my hopes that hang thereon, 
By every saint that churchman notes, 
By all the souls of all the Scotts, 
I swear — and soothly say to you, 
Knight, this device will never do." 
u We'll try once more,'* said Wat, " and then," — 
u No, Knight, I tell thee it is vain." 

27. 
u O Christ !" in grievous fret, cried Wat, 
" The castle, father, think of that ! 

That fortress might I win, 
I would not scruple, no not I, 
By night and day my task to ply 
Until I learn'd the liturgy, 

Each word and pause therein. 
Trust me, to gain your privilege, 
I would go on a pilgrimage, 
With palmer's weed and niggard fare, 
Ev'n to the holy sepulchre ; 
And if with your assistance true 
The place I win, I pledge to you, 
A warrior's word, a warrior's hand, 
One half the spoil you shall command. 
f 2 



54 WAT O* THE CLEUCH. 



28. 
11 Say thou no more," the sire replied, 
" Bold brother Hew shall be your guide ; 
And by my faith in Saint Mary, 
I know not braver wight than he, 
Nor one will risk such desperate game 
For maid immured or winsome dame, 
Or with such manhood work his way 
When husbands, sires, and serfs way-lay. 
At Nisbet, Holm, and Sorbytree, 
Boonjeddwort, Nook, and Oxnam-lea, 
Has Hew been caught and used full ill, 
Yet brother Hew is living still ; 
His arm already have you tried, 
And I should deem him trusty guide 
As ever stepp'd on Border side ; 
Well thrive the progress and event ! 
One-tenth the stores in Roxburgh pent 
Would comfort much my friends and me, 
And benefit our monastery. 
God speed the mission ! you shall want 
No aid that Abbot John can grant." 



END OF CANTO FIRST, 



WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 



CANTO SECOND, 



WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 

CAKTO SECOND. 



vwwvvwvw 



I. 

Now Wat o 5 the Cleuch's gone down the dale, 

But he is not in hauberk or glistening mail ; 

Wat has not his hound, he has not his hawk, 

His two-hand sword hangs not at his back ; 

But Wat and all the best of his train 

Have frocks and cowls of murky grain ; 

Spear, axe, or hackbut, have they none, 

But scymitar and habergeon. 

O never were friars so stalwart to view 

As Hab o' the Swire, and hard-riding Hugh, 

And Whitson,and Halston, and Wat o' the Cleuch. 

2. 
Not grieved was Wat for his cap of steel, 
Nor armour doff *d from head to heel, 
But sorely troubled was his mind 
At leaving his good sword behind ; 
For oft had it stood him in good stead, 
And he found he had left a friend indeed : 
This noted his page, a trusty elf, 
And thought and judged for himself. 



58 WAT o' THE CLEUCH. 



Away they went all brisk and hale 

Down the beauteous links of Teviotdale ; 

Full soft and slowly past they by 

Where the towers of Roxburgh frown'd on high. 

But there is one of the holy flock 

Whose eye is never from the rock, 

Who looks as if his soul were blent 

With counterscarp and battlement. 

4. 
Un-noted all seven bowmen lay, 
Resting upon the castle brae, 
Who saw the monks pass slowly by, 
And one that still upward turn'd his eye. 
" Jesu 1" cried one, with startled air, 
" What mighty stalwart monk is there ? 
Such form as that I never knew, 
Save the mosstrooper, Wat o' the Cleuch. 

5. 
" Ah ! may our blessed Lady above, 
And all the saints that sanctify love, 
Curse, wreck, and overcome, for ever,*' 
Said one, " that restless, ruthless reaver ! 
I would give all my father's land 
To have him there so near at hand, 
Within the range of this yew-bow's shot ;— 
Shoot at the Monk, he's but a Scot." 

6. 
The stout and stalworth Monk, I weqp, 
Well heard the converse past between ; 



CANTO SECOND. 59 

For away he went with lengthen'd stride 

Around the band to the farther side. 

He had been taught the danger to know 

Of feather'd shaft from Southern bow, 

And all too well the English knew 

The figure and form of Wat o' the Cleuch. 

7. 
To Kelso they came, and welcome were they 
To the Abbot and Monks of that abbaye ; 
For rich was the offering they brought in hand, 
And they said it was spoil of Northumberland 
Which Scottish chief to the church had given. 
To have his soul and conscience shriven 
Of crime he did full sore repent — 
Of murder and of ravishment. 

8. 
" Sooth,'* said the Abbot, " it would be hard 
If son repentant should be barr'd 
For ever from the gate of Heaven ; 
The generous chief shall be forgiven 
Of all his crimes, whate'er the sum, 
That is, or was, or is to come. 
One single slight exception 
I make from this remission, 
And well I know that you'll approve 
Of that I do in Christian love ; 
For my anathemas are laid 
Against a thief so thorough sped, 
That ne'er did warrior annals trace 
Such path of guilt in human race ; 



60 WAT O* THE CLEUCH. 

At name of this stern heretic 

Mercy recoils and grace grows sick ; 

For ruthless crimes of each degree, 

For sacrilege and reavery, 

His like the Border never knew ; 

A thief he is and coward too, 

God's adversary, Wat o' the Cleuch." 

9. 
The stalworth Monk that drooping stood 
Beneath his frock and scallop'd hood, 
His tall gigantic form to hide, 
Now forward stepp'd with madden'd stride, 
And, with his nostrils breathing ire, 
Close to the Abbot's cheek of fire, 
" Thou dunghill mass of corruptness ! 
What devil in hell hath told thee this V 9 
This said he with such thunderous breath, 
The Abbot nigh had sunk beneath ; 
But off he sprung like terrier grim, 
When greyhound with his length of limb 
Comes deftly up, and unawares 
Growls forth resentment in his ears. 
Away he speeds, but turns again, 
Preserved from danger by disdain, 
And views with dark malicious eye 
His tall indignant enemy; 
So stood the Priest, aghast and shrunk, 
Gazing upon the hideous Monk. 

10. 
But brother Hew, now Prior calPd, 
The danger saw, and was appalPd ; 



CANTO SECOND. 61 

Up to the Monk he sped apace? 

ScowPd dark, and brow'd him face to face : 

" Thou beast," he said, " thou dolt ; for shame ! 

Disgrace of church and beadsman's name ! 

I knew some outrage thou would'st do, 

But Father John would have it so ; 

Think for a moment, think and rue, 

For what you came and what is due.'' 

11. 
When Prior Hew this speech began, 
The Monk seem'd waxing more than man ; 
Upstretch'd his form, his breath he drew, 
His breast like chest of war-horse grew ; 
But noting Hew's well-feigned wrath, 
His rage subsided, and his breath 
Came sounding forth as violently 
As winter blast on casement high. 
One word there was, "for what he came ?" 
That was the word his pride to tame, 
And low he bent, as if afraid 
Of that was done and that was said. 

12. 
But those who tried that chief to cow 
Had, by my say, too much ado ; 
Not brooking slight, or stern controul* 
A flame impetuous was his soul, 
And neither danger nor distress 
Could that resistless flame suppress. 
" Down on your knees,'' the Prior said ; 
Reluctantly the Monk obey'd ; 
G 



62 WAT o' THE CLEUOH. 

" Now first, repentant for all this, 

The Abbot's garment thou must kiss." 

" Pah !" cried the Monk, u out on such stain, 5 

And spit upon't, and spit again ! 

13. 
All were amazed, the Prior most, 
Regretting all thus madly lost. 
He seized the Monk by force outright, 
And call'd for help 'gainst maniac might ; 
But Wat's right humble holy weed 
His wayward mood not lessened, 
For though the Friar at first hold 
Bore down to earth his giant mould, 
Like ocean-wave's indignant sway, 
O'erwhelming bark that dares assay 
To ride o'er its capacious breast, 
So rose the Chief above the Priest. 
But in the struggle them between 
Both their broad scymitars were seen ; 
Upraised the Monks a hideous yell, 
Toward the porch they rush'd pell-mell, 
Shrieking and shouting as they flew, 
" Treason ! Confusion ! Wat o' the Cleuch !" 

14. 
Wat saw his folly all too late, 
Like many- a wight infuriate ; 
But instant danger then he knew- 
Hung o'er him and his motley crew ; 
" What have I done ?" he cried, and then 
Right through the crowd he dash'd amain, 



CANTO SECOND. 63 

And in one moment took his stand 
Within the porch with sword in hand ; 
" None move," he cried, " on pain of death, 
Nor utter word above his breath ! 
Warriors, let none escape away, 
And death to him that dares assay." 

15. 
The poor Cistertians to a cell 
Were hurried down and guarded well, 
And now the hardy Mountaineer 
The abbey holds without compeer ; 
But much the townsmen's wonder grew, 
That visitants were there they knew, 
Yet neither bustle rose nor din, 
And none went out and none came in ; 
Paused, and stood still each passer-by, 
With thirsty ear and prying eye, 
Till to a mighty crowd they grew, — 
Wat saw, and ill could brook the view. 

16. 
As in Dunedin streets, 'tis known, 
Mine own right loyal worthy town, 
If wight delighted 'gins to pry 
With eager mien and curious eye, 
Soon is he join'd by great and small, 
By burgess, bailiff, thieves, and all, 
By idle motley limbs of trade, 
By beadle, beldame, matron, maid, 
With gaping gaze and panting breast, 
From north, and south, and east, and west, 



64 WAT O* THE CLEUCH. 

Till all the countless throng partake 
Of looking on, for looking's sake. 
Whate'er the object — 'tis the same, 
A thing of nought or thing of name, 
A Highland troop of sorry cheer, 
With naked thigh and bandilier ; 
A gallows thief, a deep divine, 
A courtezan o'ercome with wine, 
Or, haply, a right beauteous dame 
With ancle trim and northern name ; 
If crowd is there, and that is known, 
All is alike, I needs must own, 
To mine own good romantic town. 

17. 
So hap'd it on the abbaye strand, 
That night our Chief held there command : 
Wat saw them gather, list, and peep, 
And cursed them in his heart full deep, 
And rightly judged that they must ween 
Some work of holy guise within. 
Straight to the darksome cell he went, 
Where praying, panting Monks were pent ; 
" Haste, haste !" he cried, " note what I say, 
It fits you quickly to obey : 
Here is a sword, I must be brief; 
If you have any small belief 
That such can work your frames annoy, 
Sing loud to God your strength with joy," 
Rung forth the hymn from out the cell 
With frantic but unsaintly swell, 
" Louder !" cried Wat, " it is my will ;" 
Louder it swell'd, and louder still ; 



CANT6 second. €5 

The Kelso-men slunk all away, 

They liked not much to hymn and pray, 

Nor like they't much unto this day. 

18. 
The Prior Hew on errand is gone, 
The scheme, the message, was his own, 
And thus far deftly gained he 
Of the Governor, Sir Guy De Lis, 
That he and two more monks should win 
Vespers to read that night within 
The fortress as arrear of sin, 
And grant remissions for reaver deed, 
Of which the soldiers stood much need. 
Sir Guy despised, as well he might, 
This ghostly fraud, yet would not slight 
The beadsman's art, for well he knew 
What in emergence they could do ; 
For they had proved, not long ago, 
A powerful friend and deadly foe. 

19. 
The shades of eve in softest hue 
Began to tint the Cheviot blue, 
But a darker, gloomier veil was wore 
On the swarthy brows of Lammermore ; 
While in the vale stood these between 
Dun Ruber slaw and Eildon green, 
One coned with rock, one cleft in three, 
Like ancient dome and monastery 
That for due penance, praise, and shrift, 
Their unassuming heads uplift, 

g 2 



66 WAT o' THE CLEUCH. 

In midst of mighty city's bound, 

With towers and ramparts circled round. 

20. 
The Tweed ran slow, the Tweed ran deep, 
Till round the abbaye making sweep, 
It sung so loud and so harsh a note, 

That it made Wat remember well 
A tale he scarce had e'er forgot, 
Of his own grandsire, Michael Scott, 

And the three dargsmen, fiends of hell, 
Who stemm'd that mighty torrent's sweep, 
And damm'd that pool so broad and deep ; 
And he saw the gap stand to that day 
From which the elves were scared away ; 
A chillness crept o'er all his frame, — 
It could not be that warlock theme, 
But feeling scarce to minstrel known — 
A dreaming, mix'd sensation 
Of things at hand, and things of yore, 
For a bloody night lay him before ! 

21. 
Now it behoved the Prior Hew, 
Who framed the plot, to chose forth two, 
And only such he needs must have 
As were obsequious and brave. 
Wat loved the one term from his soul, 
The other made him fret and scowl ; 
But Hew's fair choice he must abide ; 
Forth stood they, rank'd on either side, 
And after pause and scrutiny, 






CANTO SECOND. 67 

" Hab of the Swire, I must have thee, 
For thou canst read the breviary." 

22. 
Wat found all chance was o'er for him, 
His cheek turn'd to a crimson grim 
As he to calculate began 
On full frustration of his plan ; 
Till up came Prior Hew apace 
And surlily look'd in his face : 
" Though thou canst neither read nor pray, 
And scarce canst word sagacious say. 
And haply art but middling brave, 
Yet, for good trial, thee I'll have ; 
One trusty friend I shall not lack 
When Wat o' the Cleuch is at my back. 1 ' 
" Bravo 1" cried Wat, with voice as loud 
As thunder from the yawning cloud ; 
" Bravo i my brother of the field ! 
There shall be skelps or we three yield !" 
Then strode he o'er the chancel floor 
With step of such gigantic power, 
That at each stride, as I heard tell, 
The monks believed within their cell 
That dreadful weight from casement fell. 

23. 
The night full dark and murky fell, 
Slow toll'd the convent evening bell, 
As o'er the Tweed went Prior Hew, 
And Habby Scott, and Wat o' the Cleuch, 
To shrive the English bands intent, 
But their last shrift was fully meant. 



68 WAT O* THE CLEUCH. 

Jock Jardine younger of Poldean, 
And Rutherford of Redfordgreen, 
Brought down the warriors from the braes 
Through night and unfrequented ways ; 
One cowled warrior staid behind 
To guard the monks in cell confined, 
The rest had all their parts assign'd. 

24. 
Ye beauteous dames of merry England, 

When you this tale shall read, 
Well may you quake for your good band, 
That guarded Tweed and Teviot's strand, 
And barriers of Northumberland, 

From reavers' ruthless deed. 
And well this thought might you beseem, 
" O that some voice to wizard's dream, 
Or whisper from the Teviot's stream, 

Would warn them in such need !" 
Dread not, fair dames, for the event ; 
Neither in camp nor tournament, 
Shall English might by foeman shent 

Be boasted as his meed. 
Haply some tale would better suit 
Thy fancy and thy wish to boot, 
Like that which hap'd on Durham field, 
Which Durham maids and dames beheld, 
To whom a grateful sacrifice 
Was Sir John Copland's royal prize, 
Or Pembroke's raid full long agone, 
Or rueful hapless Homeldon ; 
But canst thou of a minstrel ask 
Such humbling, such ungrateful task ? 



CANTO SECOND. 69 

No — free as stag on Border height, 
As falcon or as eagle's flight, 
Free as the summer's cloudless breeze, 
Or bird that swims the polar seas, 
From matron's say, or man's behest, 
Flow forth, flow unconstrain'd my geste ! 



END OF CANTO SECOND. 



WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 



CANTO THIRD. 



WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 



CANTO THIRD, 



vwvwwww 



1. 

Old Roxburgh, oft thy halls of yore 

Rang to the war and wassail lay, 
As oft thy clanging trumpet bore 

Loud watch-word to the Border gray ; 
And many a song and legend tell 

To mountain hind and wondering dame, 
Of doughty deeds that there befel, 
And of that perilous citadel 

That force alone might claim. 
Low lie thy mighty ramparts now, 

Of many a hero's dust the shrine ; 
And o'er them, as in triumph, grow 
The spleenwort and the murky sloe, 
The bramble, moss, and misletoe, 

Their gloomy hues entwine. 

2. 
But, Roxburgh, who of Border blood 

Can o'er thy mouldering turrets tread, 
Can stand where his forefather* stood, 
H 



74 WAT ©* THE CLEUCH. 

And smile where erst those fathers bled, 
Nor for the mighty honour'd dead 

Feel the heart-stirrings of acclaim ? 
If such there are, this be his meed : 
No trophy ever wait his name ; 
On him may never beauteous dame 

Of Teviot smile ; and when is run 

The last tide through his soul-less frame, 

Then ne'er may vassal, dame, or son, 

Wail for the heartless wight thus gone 

Loaded with minstrel's malison. 

3. 

But there were times, when he whose hand 
Upheld thy dreaded proud command 
Stood much in need of courage high, 
Of jealous mind, and watchful eye: 
And such well proven was sir Guy. 
That night he sat in Roxburgh tower 

With many a knight and squire around, 
Unweeting all of hostile power, 

And loudly swell'd the revel sound ; 
For in that good old Border day 
They lack'd not oft, as I heard say, 
Good beer, and wine, and usquebhae. 



" A song !" cried Howard, " and by name, 
I call Edward of Walsinghame, 
Whom I invoke by game and glee, 

For lay he sings most pleasantlie." 

" Sooth, my good lords," said Walsinghame, 

s * Well wot you of my minstrel fame, 



CANTO THIRD. 75 

To all my lays I put one strain, 

As well to sacred as profane, 

Nor have I more — but I can tell 

What lay would please Lord Howard well. 

Still will he urge it, right or wrong, 

Though decency forbids the song. 

My lords, I'll put you in amaze, 

Wot you what Lady Howard says ?" 

5. 
Howard look'd sulky and chagrin'd, 
His head on clenched fist he lean'd, 
For sooth he felt the jest would come 
Too near his heart, too near his home, 
Had not then chanced to enter in 
The holy men to shrive of sin. 
" Ah !" whisper'd one, not as in jest, 
" Does good Lord Howard need the priest ?" 
" No, by my fay," said Walsinghame, 
" It is not Howard, but his dame." 
Straight words were said unmeet to tell, 
And hand on hilt of broad sword fell ; 
But every voice 'gan to prolong, 
In louder key, " The song 1 the song !" 
* Yes," said Sir Guy, " that song we'll have 
Of beggarly moss-trooper knave, 
That merry song, which well you wot. 
Of greedy, lean, and mangy Scot." — 

i. 

O heard ye never of Wat o* the Cleuch ? 
The lad that has worrying tikes enow, 



76 WAT O* THE CLEUCH. 

Whose meat is the moss, and whose drink is the 

dew, 
And that's the cheer of Wat o' the Cleuch. 

Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch ! 

Woe's my heart for Wat o' the Cleuch I 

2. 
Wat o' the Cleuch sat down to dine 
With two pint stoups of good red wine ; 
But when he look'd they both were dry ; 
O poverty parts good company ! 

Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch ! 

O for a drink to Wat o' the Cleuch ! 

3. 
Wat o' the Cleuch came down the Tine 
To woo a maid both gallant and fine ; 
But as he came o'er by Dick o' the Side 
He smell'd the mutton and left the bride. 

Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch ! 

What think ye now of Wat o 5 the Cleuch ? 

4. 
Wat o' the Cleuch came here to steal, 
He wanted milk, and he wanted veal ; 
But ere he wan o'er the Beetleston brow 
He hough'd the calf and eated the cow ! 

Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch ! 

Well done, doughty Wat o' the Cleuch ! 

5. 

Wat o' the Cleuch came here to fight, 

But his whittle was blunt, and his nag took fright, 



CANTO THIRD. 77 

And the braggart he did what I dare not tell. 
But changed his cheer at the back of the fell. 

Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch ! 

O for a croudy to Wat o' the Cleuch! 

6. 
Wat o' the Cleuch kneel'd down to pray, 
He wist not what to do or to say ; 
But he pray'd for beef, and he pray'd for bree, 
A two'hand spoon and a haggies to pree. 

Wat o'-the Cleuch ! Wat o* the Cleuch ! 

That's the cheer for Wat o' the Cleuch! 

7. 
But the devil is cunning as I heard say, 
He knew his right, and hauPd him away ; 
And he's over the Border and over the heuch, 
And off to hell with Wat o' the Cleuch. 

Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch ! 

Lack-a-day for Wat o' the Cleuch ! 

8. 
But of all the wights in poor Scotland, 
That ever drew bow or Border brand, 
That ever drove English bullock or ewe, 
There never was thief like Wat o' the Cleuch, 

Wat o' the Cleuch ! Wat o' the Cleuch ! 

Down for ever with Wat o' the Cleuch ! 

6. 
Loud laugh'd the chiefs, but were annoy'd 
By the three Monks that stood aside ; 
Struggling they seem'd and sore aghast, 
h 2 



78 WAT O* THE CLEUOH. 

And two still held the other fast. 
" Your pardon, Knights," said Prior Hew, 
" I grieve for stir where honour's due, 
But this poor brother, by God'* will, 
With fits like this is troubled still." 
" De Gray," said Guy, who noted then 
Three Monks of such unsaintly mien, 
" De Gray, lead these to Golbert's cell, 
And see them stripp'd and searched well ; 
Nay, hold — much need have we to care, 
Search them before me where they are." 

7. 

Short breathed the Monks, and 'gan to feel 
Beneath their gowns for hilt of steel, 
And stood up grimly by the wall : 
It was a moment critical ! 
In posture that bespoke the mind, 
With foot advanced, and arm behind, 
With floating gowns of sackcloth grey, 
And eyes bent forward on their prey, 
There the redoubted beadsmen stood, 
Painting like wolves that thirst for blood. 

8. 

But chiefly he of giant mien, 
That stood the other two between, 
Stoop'd onward with such dire intent 
As if each nerve were strain'd and bent ; 
Like dog that notes on green -sward lone 
The burrowing moldwarp's heaving cone, 
Stands all intent his skill to try, 
With turn'd-up ear and steadfast eye, 



CANTO THIRB. 79 

With starting frame, and lifted foot, 

In guise most wistfully acute, 

Seeming the hair-breadth time to know 

When he must spring on weetless foe ; 

As staunch, as steady, and as true, 

Stood the dark reaver, Wat o' the Cleuch. 

9. 
To call his serfs forth stepp'd De Gray, 
His captain's orders to obey ; 
But at that moment rose a yell 
Of dire alarm ; loud rung the bell, 
The trumpet sounded, and a rout 
Was heard around, within, without ; 
All in amazement look'd around, 
And straight to quit the hall were bound, 
When cautious Guy call'd them to stay 
And seize the Monks whate'er the fray. 

10. 
That was the word of fear and scathe, 
The word of tumult, broil, and death ; 
" Hurra !" cried Wat, and onward flew 
Like fire-brand that out wings the view, 
And at Sir Guy he made a blow 
That fairly cleft that Knight in two ; 
Then Walsinghame he turn'd upon, 
And pinn'd him through the shoulder-bone 
Against the pavement, and the while, 
Half said, half sung, with grizly smile, 
" Out, songster, with thy chorus true, 
What think ye now of Wat o' the Cleuch ?" 



80 WAT 0* THE CLEUCH. 

" Ah ! ruffian, ah ! — for shame ! for shame !** 
Were the last words of Walsinghame. 

II. 

Through toil, through terror, and through blood, 

Like stayless burst of mountain flood, 

Wat bore before him all outright, 

For battle was his sole delight : 

Stout Prior Hew was sore bested, 

For whiles he fought and whiles he fled, 

But aye, whene'er he aim'd a blow, 

Not farther press'd his fated foe. 

Right sore it grieveth me to tell 

What to brave Halbert Scott befel : 

Hard was he set, as well might be, 

For still they fought it one to three, 

No buckler bound was on his wrist, 

No cuirass on his manly breast, 

Though strong his arm, it was foreworn, 

And to the wall his back was borne. 

12. 
Wat saw his danger, and amain 
Flew to his aid, but flew in vain ; 
For with such fury fell his stroke, 
That from the hilt his broad-Sword broke : 
" Wo worth thy dwarf and dirty blade, 
And forge where such a thing was made !" 
Cried Wat, " oh for my friend in need, 
Now do I lack my sword indeed ! 
Lay on them, cousin ! — bravely done ! 
Down with the dastards one by one !" 
This said, he griped a Southron fast 



CANTO THIRD. 81 

And held him firm before his breast, 
As shield 'gainst many a coming blow- 
That slew the friend but not the foe ; 
His sword secured, he threw him then 
With dash among the Englishmen. 
Then after him impetuous flew, 
Crying, "That's the cheer for Wat o' the 
Cleuch." 

13. 
Four only now remain'd alive, 
Who, deeming it unmeet to strive, 
Made for the door through kinsmen's blood, 
But Prior Hew before them stood ; 
Scarce could he Mary's name have said 
Ere all the four were grovelling laid. 
Of all the Chiefs remain'd not one, 
Nor knew their troops of that was done ; 
And when the Scots first paused and thought, 
And saw the ruin that was wrought, 
They stood and gazed in silence on, 
Scarce trowing what themselves had done. 

14. 
" Now by the might of Michael Scott," 
Said Wat, " though I full oft have fought, 
And changed with Southrons many a blow, 
I ne'er got full revenge till now." 
« Ah, my brave Chief!" said Hab, " I fear 
That this dcray will cost you dear, 
Would that my brother John were here !" 
He stagger'd, sunk, no more he said, 



82 WAT o' THE CLEUCH. 

With the next breath, 'mong foemen laid, 
His great and gallant spirit fled. 

15. 
The Borderer could not this withstand, 
He took the dead man by the hand : 
" Ah, Hab !" he sigh'd, "long will it be, 
Ere I find right-hand man like thee ! 
Sore will I miss thy arm of might 
Before the break of morning light, 
And, reft of stay so firm and true, 
I may be then as thou art now ; 
But if I live — by Saint Marye, 
By all the love I bore to thee, 
Thy death shall well revenged be !" 

16. 
Still the alarm without was dire, 
The town by that time was on fire, 
Which Wat's ungracious page had done, 

An imp's unbidden act, 
Who ween'd that such confusion 

The Southrons might distract ; 
But those who knew the elfin, said 
More selfish aim the action sway'd, 

As you shall hear anon ; 
Howe'er it was, the Southrons ran 
Forth from the gate when it began, 

To help or to look,on ; 
And when our beadsmen issued out, 
Well armed now from head to foot 
With sword, with spear, and shield to boot, 

There but themselves were none. 



CANTO THIRD. 83 

Save by fair dames, full sore amazed, 
From bartizan and tower that gazed, 
Unchallenged they past up and down, 
And blest the hand that fired the town. 

ir. 

When to the gate of keep they past, 
They found it closed and bolted fast, 
Yet none remain'd within but they, 
Save women weak and chaplain gray ; 
But through the outer court they saw 
A troop that toward them did draw, 
Though noise they heard not near nor far 
Of clash of arms or shout of war. 

18. 
In darkness deep to posts they win, 
With light without but none within, 
Resolved the comers to astound, 
And with their lances safely wound. 
Soon oped the gate with thundering jar, 
Enter'd the careless men of war ; 
But straight the foremost with a yell 
Reeling recoiled, and groan'd, and fell ; 
Forward they press'd, but what defence 
From wounds that came they knew not whence ? 
The way was straight — in heaps they fell, 
By whom, or how, they could not tell. 
Some call'd out " Treason," some " Sir Guy,** 
Some Howard, Scroop, and Barnaby ; 
But lord or leader came not near, 
They would not heed or did not hear ; 



84 WAT O* THE CLEUCH. 

And ne'er had terror and dismay 
O'er warrior troop such ample sway, 
As through the court their flight they wing 
To sound the alarm and gathering. 

19. 
But all the tumults ever seen 
At Roxburgh gate since that had been, 
Were trivial to the clash and clang 
That now before the castle rang. 
Down came the warriors of the Cleuch, 
In foray, feud, or battle true, 
With glancing swords and plumes of white, 
Dancing and flickering through the night 
Like the bog-meteors, darkly seen 
By moorland tarn or mountain green, 
That spread, that quaver, and retire, 
Things half of mist and half of fire ; 
So came the mountain warriors nigh, - 
Bedimming sight to foeman's eye. 

20. 
Swift, steady, silent, and profound, 
They came — save that a cluttering sound 
Would sometimes whisper in the gale. 
To listener's ear unwelcome tale. 
Like dark descent of winter snow 
That down the night sublimely slow 
Steals on the earth with silent pace, 
Heaping and smothering Nature's face ; 
Yet sometimes burst of pattering hail 
Will trembling shepherd's ear assail j 



CANTO THIRD. 85 

Loud bursts the wind, the storm is hurl'd 
Wide o'er a pale and prostrate world, 
As still, as threatful, down they drew, 
As loud, as furious, on they flew, 
The baited warriors of the Cleuch, 

31. 

Wat heard the slogan, and his heart 

Leap'd at the sound, up did he start 

With madden'd motion, quite the same 

As if his tall gigantic frame 

Had been machine, that battle knell 

Could set, and keep in movement well. 

He set his limbs, his sword he swung, 

With smother'd shout from pavement sprung, 

Whistled his weapon through the air, 

For foes were none his blows to bear ; 

And scarce could Hew the Knight restrain 

From dashing 'mid his foes amain, 

Though in the court of Scots were none, 

And he 'mong thousands all alone. 

But as more loud the conflict grew, 

Up to the battlements he flew, 

And shouted out, with voice as full 

And fury-toned as mountain bull, 

" On, kinsmen, on ! — ye are the men ! 

Lay on them, Dicky of Bellenden. 

Chirsty of Thorleshope ! 
Sim of the Brae ! 

Rutherford ! Rutherford ! 
Hie to to the fray ! 

Huh ! for the battle lads, 
Hurra I hurray ! 
I 



86 WAT O' THE CLEUCH. 



But sorely did the Southrons gall 
The Scotsmen from the outer wall, 
And brave De Gray, with ready mind, 
Sent round an ambush them behind ; 
Then, grievous sight for Wat to see ! 
He saw his warriors turn and flee. 
Down went the draw-bridge, 

The gates up flew, 
Forth rush'd the English 

To waste and pursue 
Those darkling marauders, 
The men of the Cleuch. 

23. 
Wat broke away, restraint was none, 
And left Hew in the tower alone, 
Who barr'd the gate, full safe was he, 
But sore was Wat in jeopardy : 
No stop his ardent way might cross, 
He dropp'd the wall, he swam the fosse, 
And though in heavy armour bound, 
Led by the noise, the fight he found ; 
Back where the Teviot made a sweep 
Around the vale both broad and deep, 
Where none could take them in the rear. 
His gallant warriors halted were, 
With their enraged foes to strive, 
Although they scarce were one to five. 



CANTO THIRD. 87 



24. 
The first attack on his array- 
Was o'er ere Wat came to the fray ; 
But when they saw his boardly frame, 
And heard his voice, and heard his name, 
Such shout broke on the midnight gale 
As ne'er astounded Border dale. 
" Hie on them, lads ! be yare, be yare, 
The castle's mine, our friends are there !" 
He cried, and dash'd on circle deep 
Like lion on a herd of sheep ; 
But at each first or second stroke 
Short in his hand his weapon broke. 
So great his might, no common glaive 
Could stand the blows in ire he gave ; 
Still was he thus forced back to fly, 
Cursing the weapons violently ; 
His might more evil did than good, 
For backward, close unto the flood, 
Was borne his small but firm array, 
And worse than doubtful was the fray. 

25. 
An elf came up by Teviot stream, 
Moving beneath a mighty beam, 
Who all the while right deftly plied 
With ready hand, from pouch on side, 
Eating sweet cake, delightful meed I 
From burning shop-board pilfered. 
Ah, 'tis an imp both staunch and true, 
The little page of Wat o' the Cleuch ! 



83 WAT o' THE CLEUCH. 

Behind the ranks he press'd along, 

Nor once was noted in the throng 

Till close up to his master's side, 

When thus he spoke with crabbed pride : 

" Here's for ye, Cleuch — de'il that ye be 

As tired of that goad as me." 

" Ah, bravest boy of mountain birth ! 

My own good sword, by heaven and earth 1" 

Cried Wat, and as he drew it out, 

Scarce earthly was his joyous shout ; 

" Huh ! for the battle, kinsmen true, 

Hie on the tikes ! give hell its due ! 

Now for the cheer of Wat o' the Cleuch l H 

26. 
What bard may sing of that assail ? 
Off went the Southron heads like hail ! 
Not one by one, nor two by two, 
But in whole files he laid them low. 
As well might field of thistles stand 
Against the might of mower's hand, 
As any armed Southron Grew 
The two-hand sword of Wat o' the Cleuch. 
Some said, but sure, I wot, in jest, 
That when full rank was not abreast, 
Then, ere the weapon's swing was sped, 
Sometimes it sever'd kinsman's head : 
Howe'er it was, that weapon's sway 
Open'd through serried ranks a way ; 
They rally'd, wheel'd, and closed amain, 
Again it broke them, and again; 
Like wedge of steel through pine-tree driven, 
Like comet through the stars of heaven, 



CANTO THIRD. 89 

That little troop of warriors true 
Press'd onward after Wat o' the Cleucm 

27. 
When first arose the slogan's yell, 
The stag awoke on Bowmont fell ; 
Listening he paced around the hind. 
His nostrils whistled in the wind ; 
Something so dread was in the strain, 
That night he couch'd not down again ; 
But just as o'er the ocean flood 
The doubtful light began to brood, 
He saw by every glen and brae, 
The flyers posting south away, 
Urging their flight through holt and wood, 
By furious Scotsmen close pursued ; 
Away, o'er Border height and vale, 
Onward he clove the morning gale, 
And sought the depth of Otterdale. 

28. 
Not to that wight my rede I say, 
Nor knight renown'd, nor lady gay, 
Who cannot frame in mind full well 
Unless that wayworn minstrel tell 
The battle's fate, what sprung from thence, 
Each fair and obvious consequence, 
How the huge stores of Roxburgh fell 
To one who knew their value well ; 
What wealth the monks of Jed wort won, 
How sore they rued ere all was done ; 
How the invading Southron host 
Fled in dismay from Scotland's coast; 

I 2 



90 WAT O THE OLEUCH. 

And how the king, for deeds of weir, 
Heap'd honours on our mountaineer. 
Who reads must frame, who reads not may, 
I chuse not lengthen out my lay. 



END OF WAT O THE CLEUOH. 



THE STRANGER. 



THE STRANGER ; 

BEING 

A FARTHER PORTION 

OF 

"THE RECLUSE," A POEM. 

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Fair was the scene and wild — a lonely tarn 

Lay bosom'd in the hill, and it was calm 

As face of slumbering childhood — yea so calm 

That magic mirror of the mountain reign 

Was spread, that vision scarcely could discern 

The water from the land, or rightly mark 

The green-sward patch, the hazel bush, the rock, 

From those fair copies on the element, 

The shadow from the substance — save that one 

Was softer and more delicately green. 

A traveller came along — tall was his steed, 
And rich that steed's caparison — but he, 
The rider, was a man uncouth to view ; 
For his attire was not like other men : 



94 THE STRANGER. 

His beard was all untrimm'd, and his fair locks 
Seem'd tann'd by suns and bleached by the rain; 
The swelter'd tufts had hung from year to year, 
Nor had the spikes of disentangling comb 
Scared their inhabitants — A man he was 
Regardless of the world and the world's scorn. 
Red was the corner of his eye, and yet 
It seem'd to beam a glance of living flame ; 
A ray scarce earthly hung upon its sphere ; 
A spark was lurking there, which, just as chanced 
The substance that enkindled it, would show 
The fiend or cherub. — On that traveller came, 
Slow and indifferent — solemn were his thoughts, 
Determined but astray — still from his breast 
Issued a hollow sound like one who pray'd 
Or sung some holy hymn, but still his eye, 
His red and troubled eye, turn'd ruefully, 
(Mix'd with a nameless feeling of delight,) 
Upon that peaceful solitary lake. 
Ah, did he deem he saw pourtrayed there 
A vision of that distant future world 
To which the yearning soul so fondly clings ! 
And did he ween that beauteous baseless shade 
An emblem of that long eternity 
So shaped to human longings ! — Righteous one ! 
That ever eye that gazes on thy works 
Should on the soul such motley visions fling 1 
Slow past he on, and still the solemn sound 
Flow'd from his breast, although his lips not moved. 

A boy came from the mountains, tripping light 
With basket on his arm — and it appear'd 
That there was butter there, for the white cloth 



THE STRANGER. 95 

That over it was spread, not unobserved, 

In tiny ridges gently rose and fell 

Like graves of children cover'd o'er with snow ; 

And by one clumsy fold the traveller spied 

One roll of yellow treasure, all as pure 

As primrose bud reflected in the lake. 

u Boy," said the stranger, " wilt thou hold my 

steed 
Till I walk round the corner of that mere ? 
When I return I will repay thee well." 
The boy consented — touched his slouching hat 
Of broad unequal brim with ready hand, 
And set his basket down upon the sward. 

The traveller went away — but ere he went 
He stroak'd his tall brown steed, and look'd at him 
With kind, but yet not unregretful eye. 
The boy stood patient — glad was he to earn 
The little pittance — well the stripling knew 
Of window in the village, where stood ranged 
The brown and tempting cakes — well sprinkled 

o'er 
With the sham raisin and deceitful plum, 
And, by corporeal functions sway'd, his mind 
Forestall'd the luxury with supreme delight. 

Long, long he patient stood — the day was hot, 
The butter ran in streamlets, and the flies 
Came round in thousands — o'er the horse's head 
A moving, darkening canopy they hung, 
Like the first foldings of the thunder cloud 
That, gathering, hangs on Bowfell's hoary peak, 



96 THE STRANGER. 

The stranger came not back, — the little boy 
Cast many a wistful look — his mind was mazed, 
Like as a brook that travels through the glade, 
By complicated tanglement involved, 
Not knowing where to run— and haply he 
Had sunk inert — but that in patience — or 
Perhaps incited by a curious mind. 
He cast his eyes to east, and west, and north, 
But nothing save the rocks, and trees, and walls, 
(Of gray stones built, and cover'd on the top 
Sheep-fold- wise, with a cope of splinter'd flags, 
That half-diverging stood upon their edge 
And half-reclining lay) came in the range 
Of his discernment — some full bitter tears 
At length came flowing down the poor boy's 
cheek. 

The steed was all impatience — high his head? 
And higher still his ears were rear'd aloft ; 
For his full eye (nigh blinded by a shade 
Of stubborn leather — a half round it was, 
In shape like to the holy moon, when she 
Glides o'er the midnight heaven on silent foot, 
When half her course and some few stages more 
Already has been run) that eye was fix'd 
On a huge stone, that on the mountain lay 
Like dome of eastern temple, or the mosque 
Where pagans worship. — Loudly did he neigh ; 
For he mistook it for a gallant steed 
Feeding in peaceful quiet — while, alas ! 
He was compell'd to stand upon the road 
Held by a fretful boy the live-long day. 



THE STRANGER. 97 

His fore-hoof, mailed with an iron shell 
That shone like silver, fiercely did he strike 
Against the sounding earth — Up rose the dust 
And fire withal, like to the smouldering smoke 
And flash, that rises from the evening gun 
Of perverse hind, that in concealment lies 
To watch the timid hare — relentless sport ! 
And then his taif, which farrier's hand obscene 
Had rudely maul'd, and sore curtail'd withal, 
And by incision cruel, and the help 
Of pullied cords, made that point up to heaven 
Which God ordain'd should hang towards the 

earth 
With graceful sweep — O shame ! that impious 

man 
Should in unrighteous pride thus lay exposed 
Unto the stifled winds and eye of day 
That nature meant to hide ! — This tail was heard 
Whistling across the ambient air, with sound 
Of blasting wrath, loud as the choral hymn 
Of mountain spirit, when by fits he sings 
The prelude of the storm within the caves 
Of gray Helvellyn — loudly wept the boy, 
And much he fear'd ; for oft that angry steed 
Turn'd round his head with such precipitance 
To dash the insects from his glossy side, 
That the poor boy in veriest danger stood 
To have his brains knock'd out ; yet still he kept 
His hold though sore beset. — At length he heard 
A voice rise from the bosom of the hill, 
Or from the heart of that small peaceful lake, 
He knew not which — it broke along the air 
That wander'd o'er that slumbering solitude 
K 



98 THE STRANGER. 

With such a solemn and impressive tone, 
That not though heaven in distant thunder had 
Spoke words of human breath, could these so 

much 
The heart of man have shook, and all his powers 
So utterly astounded. — On it came 
With gathering boom — loud and more loud it 

came 
And passing, died upon the trembling wind, 
Or crept into the silence of the hill, 
Like startled spirit, and was heard no more ! 
It was a beetle — somewhere it had been 
At elvish carol on that mountain's breast, 
Or haply dancing with the daffodils, 
Upon the margin of that lovely lake 
Ycleped a tarn or water — or mayhap 
From dwelling'mid the maze of glow-worm lamps 
That with faint radiance gild the earthly woods, 
When dews fall soft and nature lies reposed, 
Proud of the rayless halo round them shed, 
Which only lights that one particular leaf 
On which the parent hangs, like a small gem 
Upon the lap of night. The boy held in 
His breath for full five seconds — then again 
Pour'd forth the bray of agony ; the night 
Fell dark and deep — the moon was not in heaven, 
But lingering in the domes beneath the world, 
(As weens the hind) throwing her yellow light 
Far up the steep, on trees, and pendant hills, 
But to that poor distress'd, perplexed boy 
As if she had not been — The horse went round 
Most unrespective. and, not satisfied 
With whisking his dark tail in furious guise, 



a 



THE STRANGER. $9 

He broke on all propriety, with snort 

Like blustering cannon, or the noise that bursts 

From heaven in thunder through the summer 

rain. 
The boy was stunn'd — for on similitude, 
In dissimilitude man's sole delight, 
And all the sexual course of things 
Do most supremely hang. — The horse wxnt 

round, 
Jerk'd with his nose, and shook his harness so 
The boy wax'd desperate, and — O impious elf! 
He cursed that hungry beast — the horse went 

round, 
And round, and round ; and pulling in his head 
To his fore-pastern, upward made it spring 
So forcibly, the poor boy's feeble arm 
Was paralyzed — his hold he lost — and off 
Like lightning flew the steed, that never more 
Was in these regions seen ! — Some did report, 
Though, I believe, the tale was all untrue, 
That a right wayward bard, whom I regret 
As having left these mountains, where alone 
True genius uncontaminate can thrive, 
Was seen cantering through Chester on that 

horse ; 
And others, that he afterwards became 
The horse of a strange youth, not unrenown'd 
In early life, who undertook the charge 
Of chaplain to a military troop, 
Cheer'd by the Highland bagpipe and the drum. 

No more the poor boy cried — he lifted up 
His basket from the earth into the air, 



100 THE STRAKGER. 

That unview'd element that circumfolds 
The earth within its bosom, there he felt 
With his left-hand how it affected was 
By the long day and burning sun of heaven. 
It was all firm and flat — no ridges rose 
Like graves of children — basket, butter, cloth, 
Were all one piece coherent.— To his home 
The boy return'd right sad and sore aghast. 

No one believed his tale — they deem'd it was 
A truant idler's story in excuse 
Of charge neglected. — Days and months past on, 
And all remain'd the same — the maidens sung 
Along the hay-field — at the even tide 
The dance and merriment prevailed — the sky 
Was pure as heretofore—- the mid-day winds 
Arose and ruffled all the peaceful lake, 
The clouds of heaven past over — nature all 
Appear'd the same as if that stranger wight 
Had never been — save that it was observed 
That Daniel Crosthwaite, who, beside the tarn, 
From good Sir William rented a few fields, 
Appear'd at church with a much better hat 
Than he was wont, for it was made of down 
That by the broad Ontario's shores had grown 
On the sleek beaver — on his window too 
A book one day was seen, and none could tell 
How it came there — it was a work in the 
French tongue, a novel of Voltaire — these things 
Were noted, whisper'd, and thought of no more. 

Late did I journey there with bard obscure 
From Scotland's barren wastes — barren alike 



THE STRANGER. \9\ 

Of verdure, intellect, and moral sense, — 
To view that lonely tarn. — He too was there, 
The changeful and right feeble bard now styled 
The Laureate — he too of the Palmy Isle, 
The man of plagues, horrors, and miseries, 
Disgrace of that sweet school, that tuneful choir 
Named from these peaceful waters — he who 

framed 
An imitation of that lay divine 
Which is inimitable — Not inept, 
Our conversation ran on books and men : 
The would-be songster of the Scottish hills 
In dialect most uncouth and language rude 
Lauded his countrymen, not unrebuked, 
Reviewers and review'd, and talk'd amain 
Of one unknown, inept, presumptuous bard, 
The Border minstrel — he of all the world 
Farthest from genius or from common sense. 
He too, the royal tool, with erring tongue, 
Back'd the poor foolish wight, and utter'd words 
For which I blush'd — I could not choose but 

smile. 
11 Yet/' said I, tempted here to interpose, 
" You must acknowledge this your favourite 
Hath more outraged the purity of speech, 
The innate beauties of our English tongue, 
For amplitude and nervous structure famed, 
Than all the land beside, and therefore he 
Deserves the high neglect which he has met 
From all the studious and thinking — those 
Unsway'd by low caprices of the age, 
The scorn of reason, and the world's revile." 
More had I said derisive — yes, by heaven 
k 2 



102 THE STRANGER. 

Much more I would have said, but that just then 
He of the Palms with startled eye look'd round. 
And such an eye, as any one may guess 
To whom that eye is known— for he beheld 

What I yet shudder to define « Great God !" 

The youth exclaim'd, " see what is lying there !" 
He of the laurel, who was next to him, 
Nay, haply nigher to the shore than he, 
Stared in amaze, but he can nothing see ; 
And in his haste, instead of looking down 
Into the water, he look'd up to Heaven : 
A most preposterous habit, which the bard 
Practises ever and anon — I look'd 
Into the peaceful lake, and there beheld 
The bones of one who once in mortal life 
Had lived and moved — a human skeleton ! 
I may not say what horrors shook my frame ! 
The bones seem'd loose, nor film nor ligament 
Bound them together, yet each one maintain'd 
Its proper place, as loth to break the mould 
In which a human soul once householded. 
It was a ghastly sight ! — where once the heart 
Of feeling and of passion play'd, or beat 
With ardent throb, lay the dark filmy mud 
That gathers in the deep, and on the bones 
Appear'd thin soapy spots of greenish hue ; 
The jaws upon the nape-bone had fallen down, 
The scull seem'd looking up — there had he died ! 
His back upon the sand, his face to heaven ! 

My mind, borne on the influence of truth, 
Turn'd instantly upon the poor boy's tale. 
Rightly I judged, for there indeed we saw 



THE STRANGER, 103 

All that remain'd of him, the stranger wight, 
That lonely wanderer of the mountain reign. 

It boots not here to tell all that was said. 
The Laureate, sighing, utter'd some few words 
Of most sublime and solemn tendency. 
The Shepherd spoke most incoherent stuff 
About the bones of sheep, that on the hills 
Perish unseen, holding their stations so. 
And he, the tented Angler of the lakes, 
Alias tL~ Man of Palms, said nothing meet. 
He was o'ercome with feeling, — it is known 
To many, and not quite to me unknown, 
That the youth's heart is better than his head. 

Glad of this opportunity, I said, 
Still pointing to the bones, " Access for you 
Is yet preserved to principles of truth, 
Which the imaginative will upholds 
In seats of wisdom, not to be approachM 
By the inferior faculty that moulds 
With her minute and speculative pains 
Opinions ever changing — I hare seen 
Regenerative Nature prostrate lie 
And drink the souls of things — of living things 
And things inanimate, and thus hold up 
The beings that we are — that change shall 

clothe 
The naked spirit ceasing to deplore 
The burden of existence, her dull eye 
To other scenes still changing still unchanged. 
The thinking thoughtless school-boy, the bold 

youth 



104 THE STRANGER. 

Of soul impetuous, and the bashful maid, 
All cogitative yield obedience up. 
And whence this tribute? wherefore these re- 
gards ? 
Not from the naked heart alone of man, 
Though framed to high distinction upon earth, 
As the sole spring and fountain-head of tears, 
His own peculiar utterance for distress 
Or gladness — it is not the vital part 
Of feeling to produce them, without aid 
From the pure soul, the soul sublimed and pure 
With her two faculties of eye and ear, 
Not without such assistance could the eye 
Of these benign observances prevail ; 
Thus are they born, thus foster'd, and maintain'd, 
And by the care prospective of our wise 
Forefathers, who, to guard against the shocks, 
The fluctuation, and decay of things. 
There lies the channel and original bed," 
Continued I, still pointing to the lake, 
" From the beginning hollow'd out and scoop'd 
For man's affections, else betray'd and lost, 
And swallow'd up 'mid desarts infinite. 
This is the genuine course, the aim and end 
Of prescient reason, all conclusions else 
Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and perverse.'* 

The men were thunderstruck ; the Angler 
most. 
That man of palms and plagues, vile copyist ! 
Seem'd compassed in wonder — in my face 
Wistful he gazed, and ever and anon 
He utter'd a short sound at every pause, 



THE STRANGE*. 105 

But further ventured not — upon the ear 
Of the poor Shepherd all these breathings fell 
Like sound of distant waters — like the rain, 
The treasures of the sky, on the firm flint, 
So moveless his impenetrative soul. 
He scratch'd his poll — the Laureate look'd to 
heaven. 

More had I said, resuming the discourse 
Of subterraneous magazines of bones, 
The faint reflections of infinitude, 
The moon and the unvoyagable sky, 
And all the high observances of things, 
But that, chancing again to turn my eyes 
Toward the bosom of that peaceful mere, 
I saw a form so ominous approach 
My heart was chill'd with horror— through the 

wave 
Slowly it came — by heaven I saw it move 
Toward the grizly skeleton ! — Its shape 
Was like a coffin, and its colour such, 
Black as the death-pall or the cloud of night ! 
At sight of such a hideous messenger, 
Thus journeying through the bowels of the deep, 
O'er sluggish leaf and unelaborate stone, 
All Nature stood in mute astonishment, 
As if her pulse lay still— onward it came, 
And hovering o'er the bones, it linger'd there 
In a most holy and impressive guise. 
I saw it shake its hideous form, and move 
Towards my feet — the elements were hush'd, 
The birds forsook their singing, for the sight 
Was fraught with wonder and astonishment. 



106 THE STRANGER. 

It was a tadpole — somewhere by itself 
The creature had been left, and there had come 
Most timeously, by Providence sent forth, 
To close this solemn and momentous tale. 



END OF THE STRANOER. 



FURTHER EXTRACT 



FROM 



« THE RECLUSE," A POEM. 



www www 



THE FLYING TAILOR. 

If ever chance or choice thy footsteps lead 
Into that green and flowery burial ground 
That compasseth with sweet and mournful smile 
The church of Grassmere, — by the eastern gate 
Enter — and underneath a stunted yew, 
Some three yards distant from the gravel-walk, 
On the left hand side, thou wilt espy a grave, 
With unelaborate head-stone beautified, 
Conspicuous 'mid the other stoneless heaps 
'Neath which the children of the valley lie. 
There pause — and with no common feelings read 
This short inscription — " Here lies buried 
The Flying Tailor, aged twenty -nine !" 

Him from his birth unto his death t knew, 
And many years before he had attain'd 



108 THE FLYING TAILOR. 

The fulness of his fame, I prophesied 

The triumphs of that youth's agility, 

And crown'd him with that name which afterwards 

He nobly justified — and dying left 

To fame's eternal blazon — read it here — 

« The Flying Tailor !" 

It is somewhat strange 
That his mother was a cripple, and his father 
Long way declined into the vale of years 
When their son Hugh was born. At first the 

babe 
Was sickly, and a smile was seen to pass 
Across the midwife's cheek, when, holding up 
The sickly wretch, she to the father said, 
" A fine man-child !" What else could they 

expect ? 
The mother being, as I said before, 
A cripple, and the father of the child 
Long way declined into the vale of years. 

But mark the wondrous change — ere he was 
put 
By his mother into breeches, Nature strung 
The muscular part of his economy 
To an unusual strength, and he could leap, 
All unimpeded by his petticoats, 
Over the stool on which his mother sat 
When carding wool, or cleansing vegetables, 
Or meek performing other household tasks. 
Cunning he watch'd his opportunity, 
And oft, as house-affairs did call her thence* 
Cbrerleapt Hugh, a perfect whirligig, 



THE FLYING TAILOR. 109 

More than six inches o'er th' astonish'd stool. 
What boots it to narrate, how at leap-frog 
Over the breech'd and unbreech'd villagers 
He shone conspicuous ? Leap-frog do I say ? 
Vainly so named. What though in attitude 
The Flying Tailor aped the croaking race 
When issuing from the weed-entangled pool, 
Tadpoles no more, they seek the new-mown fields, 
A jocund people, bouncing to and fro, 
Amid the odorous clover — while amazed 
The grasshopper sits idle on the stalk 
With folded pinions and forgets to sing. 
Frog-like, no doubt, in attitude he was ; 
But sure his bounds across the village green 
Seem'd to my soul — (my soul for ever bright 
With purest beams of sacred poesy) 
Like bounds of red-deer on the Highland-hill, 
When, close-environed by the tinchel's chain, 
He lifts his branchy forehead to the sky, 
Then, o'er the many-headed multitude 
Springs belling half in terror, half in rage, 
And fleeter than the sunbeam or the wind 
Speeds to his cloud-lair on the mountain -top. 

No more of this — suffice it to narrate, 
In his tenth year he was apprenticed 
Unto a Master Tailor by a strong 
And regular indenture of seven years, 
Commencing from the date the parchment bore, 
And ending on a certain day, that made 
The term complete of seven solar years. 
Oft have I heard him say, that at this time 
Of life he was most wretched ; for, constrained 
L 



1 10 THE FLYING TAILOR. 

To sit all day cross-legg'd upon a board, 
The natural circulation of the blood 
Thereby was oft impeded, and he felt 
So numb'd at times, that when he strove to rise 
Up from his work he could not, but fell back 
Among the shreds and patches that bestrew'd 
With various colours, brightening gorgeously, 
The board all round him — patch of warlike red 
With which he patched the regimental-suits 
Of a recruiting military troop, 
At that time stationed in a market town 
At no great distance — eke of solemn black 
Shreds of no little magnitude, with which 
The parson's Sunday-coat was then repairing, 
That in the new-roof 'd church he might appear 
With fitting dignity — and gravely fill 
The sacred seat of pulpit eloquence, 
Chearing with doctrinal point and words of faith 
The poor man's heart, and from the shallow wit 
Of atheist drying up each argument, 
Or sharpening his own weapons only to turn 
Their point against himself, and overthrow 
His idols with the very enginery 
Reared 'gainst the structure of our English 
church. 

Oft too, when striving all he could to finish 
The stated daily task, the needle's point, 
Slanting insidious from th' eluded stitch, 
Hath pinch'd his finger, by the thimble's mail 
In vain defended, and the crimson blood 
Distain'd the lining of some wedding-suit, 
A dismal omen ! that to mind lik& his, 



THE FLYING TAILOR. Ill 

Apt to perceive in slightest circumstance 
Mysterious meaning, yielded sore distress 
And feverish perturbation, so that oft 
He scarce could eat his dinner — nay, one night 
He swore to run from his apprenticeship, 
And go on board a first-rate man-of-war, 
From Plymouth lately come to Liverpool* 
Where, in the stir and tumult of a crew 
Composed of many nations, 'mid the roar 
Of wave and tempest, and the deadlier voice 
Of battle, he might strive to mitigate 
The fever that consumed his mighty heart. 

But other doom was his. That very night 
A troop of tumblers came into the village, 
Tumbler, equestrian, mountebank, — on wire, 
On rope, on horse, with cup and balls, intent 
To please the gaping multitude, and win 
The coin from labour's pocket — small perhaps 
Each separate piece of money, but when join'd 
Making a good round sum, destined ere long 
All to be melted, (so these lawless folk 
Name spending coin in loose debauchery) 
Melted into ale — or haply stouter cheer, 
Gin diuretic, or the liquid flame 
Of baneful brandy, by the smuggler brought 
From the French coast in shallop many-oar'd, 
Skulking by night round headland and through 

bay, 
Afraid of the King's cutter, or the barge 
Of cruising frigate, arm'd with chosen men, 
And with her sweeps across the foamy waves 
Moving most beautiful with measured strokes. 



112 THE FLYING TAILOR. 

It chanced that as he threw a somerset 
Over three horses (each of larger size 
Than our small mountain-breed) one of the troop 
Put out his shoulder, and was otherwise 
Considerably bruised, especially 
About the loins and back. So he became 
Useless unto that wandering company, 
And likely to be felt a sore expense 
To men just on the eve of bankruptcy, 
So the master of the troop determined 
To leave him in the work-house, and proclaim'd 
That if there was a man among the crowd 
Willing to fill his place and able too, 
Now was the time to shew himself. Hugh 

Thwaites 
Heard the proposal as he stood apart 
Striving with his own soul — and with a bound 
He leapt into the circle, and agreed 
To supply the place of him who had been hurt. 
A shout of admiration and surprise 
Then tore heaven's concave, and completely fill'd 
The little field, where near a hundred people 
Were standing in a circle round and fair. 
Oft have I striven by meditative power, 
And reason working 'mid the various forms 
Of various occupations and professions, 
To explain the cause of one phenomenon, 
That since the birth of science hath remain'd 
A bare enunciation, unexplain'd 
By any theory, or mental light 
Stream'd on it by the imaginative will, 
Or spirit musing in the cloudy shrine 
The Penetralia of the immortal soul. 



THE FLYING TAILOR. 113 

I now allude to that most curious fact, 

That 'mid a given number, say threescore, 

Of tailors, more men of agility 

Will issue out, than from an equal shew 

From any other occupation — say 

Smiths, barbers, bakers, butchers, or the like. 

Let me not seem presumptuous, if I strive 

This subject to illustrate ; nor, while I give 

My meditations to the world will I 

Conceal from it, that much I have to say 

I learnt from one who knows the subject well 

In theory and practice — need I name him ? 

The light-heePd author of the Isle of Palms, 

Illiistrious more for leaping than for song. 

First, then, I would lay down this principle, 
That all excessive action by the law 
Of nature tends unto repose. This granted, 
All action not excessive must partake 
The nature of excessive action — so 
That in all human beings who keep moving, 
Unconscious cultivation of repose 
Is going on in silence. Be it so. 
Apply to men of sedentary lives 
This leading principle, and we behold 
That, active in their inactivity, 
And unreposing in their long repose, 
They are, in fact, the sole depositaries 
Of all the energies by others wasted, 
And come at last to teem with impulses 
Of muscular motion, not to be withstood, 
And either giving vent unto themselves 
l 2 



114 THE FLYING TAILOR.. 

In numerous feats of wild agility, 
Or terminating in despair and death. 

Now of all sedentary lives, none seems 
So much so as the tailor's. — Weavers use 
Both arms and legs, and, we may safely add, 
Their bodies too, for arms and legs can't move 
Without the body — as the waving branch 
Of the green oak disturbs his glossy trunk. 
Not so the Tailor — for he sits cross-legg'd, 
Cross-legg'd for ever ! save at time of meals, 
In bed, or when he takes his little walk 
From shop to alehouse, picking as he goes 
Stray patch of fustian, cloth, or cassimere, 
Which, as by natural instinct, he discerns, 
Though soil'd with mud, and by the passing 

wheel 
Bruised to attenuation 'gainst the stones. 

Here then we pause — and need no farther go, 
We have reach'd the sea-mark of our utmost sail. 
Now let me trace the effect upon his mind 
Of this despised profession. Deem not thou, 
O rashly deem not, that his boyish days 
Past at the shop-board, when the stripling bore 
With bashful feeling of apprenticeship 
The name of Tailor, deem not that his soul 
Derived no genial influence from a life, 
Which, although haply adverse in the main 
To the growth of intellect, and the excursive 

power, 
Yet in its ordinary forms possess'd 
A constant influence o'er his passing thoughts, 



THE FLYING TAILOR. 115 

Moulded his appetences and his will, 

And wrought out by the work of sympathy, 

Between his bodily and mental form, 

Rare correspondence, wond'rous unity ! 

Perfect — complete— and fading not away. 

While on his board cross-legg'd he used to sit, 

Shaping of various garments, to his mind 

An image rose of every character 

For whom each special article was framed, 

Coat, waistcoat, breeches. So at last his soul 

Was like a storehouse, fill'd with images, 

By musing hours of solitude supplied. 

Nor did his ready fingers shape the cut 

Of villager's unceuth habiliments 

With greater readiness, than did his mind 

Frame corresponding images of those 

Whose corporal measurement the neat-mark'd 

paper 
In many a mystic notch for aye retain'd. 
Hence, more than any man I ever knew, 
Did he possess the power intuitive 
Of diving into character. A pair 
Of breeches to his philosophic eye 
Were not what unto other folks they seem, 
Mere simple breeches, but in them he saw 
The symbol of the soul — mysterious, high 
Hieroglyphics ! such as Egypt's Priest 
Adored upon the holy Pyramid, 
Vainly imagined tomb of monarchs old, 
But raised by wise philosophy, that sought 
By darkness to illumine, and to spread 
Knowledge by dim concealment — process high 
Of man's imaginative, deathless soul. 



1 16 THE FLYING TAILOR. 

Nor, haply, in th' abasement of the life 
Which stern necessity had made his own, 
Did he not recognise a genial power 
Of soul-ennobling fortitude. He heard 
Unmoved the witling's shallow contumely, 
And thus, in spite of nature, by degrees 
He saw a beauty and a majesty 
In this despised trade, which warrior's brow 
Hath rarely circled — so that when he sat 
Beneath his sky-light window, he hath cast 
A gaze of triumph on the godlike sun, 
And felt that orb, in all his annual round, 
Beheld no happier nobler character 
Than him, Hugh Thwaites, a little tailor-boy. 

Thus I, with no unprofitable song, 
Have, in the silence of th' umbrageous wood, 
Chaunted the heroic youthful attributes 
Of him, the Flying Tailor. Much remains 
Of highest argument to lute or lyre 
Fit to be murmur'd with impassion'd voice ; 
And when, by timely supper and by sleep 
Refresh'd, I turn me to the welcome taskj 
With lofty hopes,— Reader, do thou expect 
The final termination of my lay. 
For, mark my words, — eternally my name 
Shall last oh earth, conspicuous like a star 
'Mid that bright galaxy of favoured spirits, 
Who, laugh'd at constantly whene'er they pub- 

lish'd, 
Survived the impotent scorn of base Reviews, 
Monthly or Quarterly, or that accursed 



THE FLYING TAILOR. 117 

Journal, the Edinburgh Review, that lives 
On tears, and sighs, and groans, and brains, and 
blood. 



END OF THE FLYING TAILO*. 



STILL FURTHER EXTRACT 



FROM 



« THE RECLUSE" A POEM. 



vwvwvwvvw 



JAMES RIGG. 



On Tuesday morn, at half-past six o'clock, 
I rose and dress' d myself, and having shut 
The door o' the bed-room still and leisurely, 
I walk'd down stairs. When at the outer-door 
I firmly grasp'd the key that ere night-fall 
Had turn'd the lock into its wonted niche 
Within the brazen implement, that shone 
With no unseemly splendour, — mellow'd light, 
Elicited by touch of careful hand 
On the brown lintel ; and th' obedient door, 
As at a potent necromancer's touch, 
Into the air receded suddenly, 
And gave wide prospect of the sparkling lake, 
Just then emerging from the snow-white mist 
Like angel's veil slow-folded up to heaven. 



120 JAMES RIGG. 

And lo ! a vision bright and beautiful 
Sheds a refulgent glory o'er the sand, 
The sand and gravel of my avenue ! 
For, standing silent by the kitchen-door, 
Tinged by the morning sun, and in its own 
Brown natural hide most lovely, two long ears 
Upstretching perpendicularly, then 
With the horizon levell'd — to my gaze 
Superb as horn of fabled Unicorn, 
Each in its own proportions grander far 
Than the frontal glory of that wandering beast, 
Child of the Desart ! Lo ! a beauteous Ass, 
With panniers hanging silent at each side ! 
Silent as cage of bird whose song is mute, 
Though silent yet not empty, fill'd with bread 
The staff of life, the means by which the soul 
By fate obedient to the powers of sense, 
Renews its faded vigour, and keeps up 
A proud communion with the eternal heavens. 
Fasten'd to a ring it stood, while at its head 
A boy of six years old, as angel bright, 
Patted its neck, and to its mouth applied 
The harmless thistle that his hand had pluck'd 
From the wild common, melancholy crop. 

Not undelightful was that simple sight, 
For I at once did recognize that ass 
To be the property of one James Rigg, 
Who for the last seven years had managed, 
By a firm course of daily industry, 
A numerous family to support, and clothe 
In plain apparel of our shepherd's grey. 
On him a heavy and calamitous lot 



JAMES RTGG. 121 

Had fallen. For working up among the hills 
In a slate-quarry, while he fill'd the stone, 
Bored by his cunning with the nitrous grain, 
It suddenly exploded, and the flash 
Quench'd the bright lustre of his cheerful eyes 
For ever, so that now they roll in vain 
To find the searching light that idly plays 
O'er the white orbs, and on the siient cheeks 
By those orbs unillumined calm and still. 

Quoth I, I never see thee and thy ass, 
My worthy friend, but I rnethinks behold 
The might of that unconquerable spirit, 
Which, operating in the ancient world 
Before the Flood, when fallen man was driven 
From paradise, accompanied him to fields 
Bare and unlovely, when the sterile earth 
Oft mock'd the kindly culture of the hand 
Of scientific agriculture — mock'd 
The shepherd's sacrifice, and even denied 
A scanty pittance to the fisherman, 
Who by the rod or net sought to supply 
His natural wants from river or from mere. 
Blind were these people to the cunning arts 
Of smooth civility — men before the Flood, 
And therefore in the scriptures rightly call'd 
Antediluvians I 

While thus I spake 
With wisdom, that industrious blind old man, 
Seemingly flatter'd by those words of mine, 
Which, judging by myself, I scarcely think 
Fie altogether understood, replied, 
While the last thistle slowly disappear'd 
M 



122 JAMES BIGG. 

Within the jaws of that most patient beast : 

" Master!" quoth he, — and while he spake his hat 

With something of a natural dignity 

Was holden in his hand—" Master," quoth he, 

" I hear that you and Mrs. Wordsworth think 

Of going into Scotland, and I wish 

To know if, while the family are from home, 

I shall supply the servants with their bread, 

For I suppose they will not all be put 

Upon board-wages." 

Something in his voice, 
While thus he spake, of simplest articles 
Of household use, yet sunk upon my soul, 
Like distant thunder from the mountain-gloom 
Wakening the sleeping echoes, so sublime 
Was that old man, so plainly eloquent 
His untaught tongue ! though something of a lisp, 
(Natural defect,) and a slight stutter too 
(Haply occasion'd by some faint attack, 
Harmless, if not renew'd, of apoplex) 
Render'd his utterance most peculiai*, 
So that a stranger, had he heard that voice 
Once only, and then traveled into lands 
Beyond the ocean, had on his return, 
Met where they might, have known that curious 

voice 
Of lisp and stutter, yet I ween withal 
Graceful, and breathed from an original mind. 

Here let me be permitted to relate, 
For sake of those few readers who prefer 
A simple picture of the heart to all 
Poetic imagery from earth or heaven 



JAMES RIGG. 1^3 

Drawn by the skill of bard,— let me, I say, 
For sake of such few readers, be permitted 
To tell, in plain and ordinary verse, 
What James Rigg first experienced in his soul, 
Standing amid the silence of the hills, 
With both the pupils of his eyes destroyed. 

When first the loud explosion through the sky 
Sent its far voice, and from the trembling rocks 
That with an everlasting canopy 
Overshadow Stickle-Tarn the echoes woke, 
So that the mountain -solitude was filled 
With sound, as with the air ! He stood awhile, 
Wondering from whence that tumult might pro- 
ceed, 
And all unconscious that the blast had dimm d 
His eyes for ever, and their smiling blue 
Converted to a pale and mournful grey. 
Was it, he thought, some blast the quarrymen 
Blasted at Conniston, or in that vale, 
Called from its huge and venerable yew, 
Yewdale? (though other etymologists 
Derive that appellation from the sheep, 
Of which the female in our English tongue 
Still bears the name of ewe.) Or did the gun 
Of fowler wandering o'er the heathery wilds 
In search of the shy gor-cock, yield that voice 
Close to his ear, so close that through his soul 
It rolled like thunder ? Or had news arrived 
Of Buonaparte's last discomfiture, 
By the bold Russ, and that great heir of fame 
Blucher, restorer of the thrones of kings ? 
And upon Lowood bowling-green did Laker, 






124 JAMES RIGG. 

Glad of expedient to beguile the hours, 

Slow moving before dinner, did he fire 

In honour of that glorious victory, 

The old two-pounder by the wind and rain 

Rusted, and seemingly to him more old 

Than in reality it was, though old, 

And ©n that same green lying since the days 

Of the last landlord, Gilbert Ormathwaite, 

Name well-remember'd all the country round, 

Though twenty summer suns have shed their 

flowers 
On the green turf that hides his mortal dust. 
Or was it, thought he, the loud signal-gun 
Of pleasure-boat, on bright Winander's wave, 
Preparing 'gainst some new antagonist 
To spread her snowy wings before the wind, 
Emulous of glory and the palmy wreath 
Of inland navigation ? graceful sport ! 
It next perhaps occurr'd to him to ask, 
Himself, or some one near him, if the sound 
Was not much louder than those other sounds, 
Fondly imagined by him, — and both he, 
And that one near him, instantly replied 
Unto himself, that most assuredly 
The noise proceeded from the very stone, 
Which they two had so long been occupied 
In boring, and that probably some spark, 
Struck from the gavelock 'gainst the treache- 
rous flint, 
Had fallen amid the powder, and so caused 
The stone t' explode, as gunpowder will do, 
With most miraculous force, especially 
When close ramm'd down into a narrorow bore, 



JAMES RIGG. 125 

And cover'd o'er with a thin layer of sand 
To exclude the air, else otherwise the grain 
Escaping from the bore, would waste itself 
In the clear sky, and leave the bored stone 
Lying unmoved upon the verdant earth, 
Like some huge creature stretch'd in lazy sleep 
Amid the wilderness, — or lying dead 
Beneath the silence of the summer sun. 

This point established, he was gently led 
By the natural progress of the human soul, 
Aspiring after truth, nor satisfied 
Till she hath found it, wheresoever hid, 
(Yea even though at the bottom of a well,) 
To enquire if any mischief had been done 
By that explosion ; and while thus he stood 
Enquiring anxiously for all around, 
A small sharp boy, whose task it was to bring 
His father's breakfast to him 'mid the hills. 
Somewhat about eleven years of age, 
Though less than some lads at the age of eight, 
Exclaim'd — " Why, father, do you turn the white 
Of your eyes up so I" At these simple words 
Astonishment and horror struck the souls 
Of all the quarrymen, for they descried, 
Clear as the noon-day, that James Rigg had lost 
His eyesight, yea his very eyes were lost, 
Quench'd in their sockets, melted into air, 
A moisture mournful as the cold dim gleam 
Of water sleeping in some shady wood, 
Screen'd from the sunbeams and the breath of 
heaven. 

m 2 



126 JAMES RfGG. 

On that he lifted up his harden'd hands, 
Harden'd by sun, and rain, and storm, and toil, 
Unto the blasted eye-balls, and awhile 
Stood motionless as fragment of that rock 
That wrought him all his woe, and seem'd to 

to lie, 
Unwitting of the evil it had done, 
Calm and serene, even like a flock of sheep, 
Scatter'd in sunshine o'er the Cheviot-hills. 
I ween that, as he stood in solemn trance, 
Tears fiow'd for him who wept not for himself, 
And that his feliow-quarrymen, though rude 
Of scul and manner, not untouchingly 
Deplored his cruel doom, and gently led 
His footsteps to a green and mossy reck, 
By sportive Nature fashion'd like a chair, 
With seat, back, elbows, — a most perfect chair 
Of unhewn living rock ! There, hapless man, 
He moved his lips, as if he inly pray'd, 
And clasp'd his hands, and raised his sightless 

face 
Unto the smiling sun, who walked through 

heaven, 
Regardless of that fatal accident, 
By which a man was suddenly reduced 
From an unusual clear long-sightedness 
To utter blindness — blindness without hope, 
So wholly were the visual nerves destroyed. 
" I wish I were at home !" he slowly said, 
" For though I ne'er must see that home again, 
w I yet may hear it, and a thousand sounds 
" Are there to gladden a poor blind man's heart." 



JAMES RIGG. 127 

He utter'd truth, — lofty, consoling, truth ! 
Thanks unto gracious Nature, who hath framed 
So wondrously the structure of the soul, 
That though it live on outward ministry, 
Of gross material objects, by them fed 
And nourish'd, even as if th' external world 
Were the great wet-nurse of the human race, 
Yet of such food deprived, she doth not pine 
And fret away her mystic energies 
In fainting inanition ; but, superior 
To the food she fed on, in her charge retains 
Euch power, and sense, and faculty, and lives, 
Cameleon-like, upon the air serene 
Of her own bright imaginative will, 
Desiderating nothing that upholds, 
Upholds and magnifies, but without eyes 
Sees — and without the vestige of an ear 
Listens, and listening, hears — and without sense 
Of touch (if haply from the body's surface 
Have gone the sense of feeling) keenly feels. 
And in despite of nose abbreviate 
Smells like a wolf — wolf who for leagues can 

snuff 
The scent of carrion, bird by fowler kill'd, 
Kill'd but not found, or little vernal kid 
Yean'd in the frost, and soon outstretch'd in 

death, 
White as the snow that serves it for a shroud. 

Therefore James Riggwas happy, and his face 
Soon brighten 'd up with smiles, and in his voice 
Contentment spoke most musical ; so when 
The doctor order'd his most worthy wife 



128 JAMES RIGG. 

To loose the bandage from her husband's eyes, 
He was so reconciled unto his lot, 
That there almost appealed to him a charm 
In blindness — so that, had his sight return'd, 
I have good reason to believe his happiness 
Had been thereby scarcely at all increased. 

While thus confabulating with James Rigg, 
Even at that moment when such silence lay 
O'er all my cottage, as by mystic power 
Belonging to the kingdom of the ear, 
O'erthrew at once all old remembrances— ■ 
Even at that moment over earth, and air, 
The waving forest, and the sleeping lake, 
And the far sea of mountains that uplifted 
Its stately billows thr6ugh the clear blue sky, 
Came such a sound, as if from her dumb trance 
Awaken'd Nature, starting suddenly, 
Were jealous oi insulted majesty, 
And sent through continent and trembling isle 
Her everlasting thunders. Such a crash, 
Tore the foundations of the earth, and shook 
The clouds that slumber'd on the breast of heaven! 
It was the parlour-bell that suddenly 
An unknown hand had rung. I cast my eyes 
Up the long length of bell-rope, and I saw 
The visible motion of its iron tongue, 
By heaven I saw it tinkling. Fast at first, 
O most unearthly fast, then somewhat slower, 
Next very slow indeedj until some four 
Or half-a-dozen minutes at the most, 
By Time's hand cut from off the shortened hour, 



JAMES RIGG. 12§ 

It stopp'd quite of itself— and idly down, 
Like the sear leaf upon th' autumnal boue-h 
Dangled! » ' # * % 



END OF JAMES RIG©. 



THE 

GUDE GREYE KATT. 



WVVW.VWVW 



There was ane katt, and ane gude greye katu 
That duallit in the touir of Blain, 

And mony haif hearit of that gude katt, 
That neuir shall heare agayn. 

Scho had ane brynd upon her backe, 

And ane brent abone hir bree ; 
Hir culoris war the merilit heuis 

That dappil the krene-berrye* 

But scho had that withyn her ee 

That man may neuir declaire, 
For scho had that within hir ee 

Quhich mortyl dochtna beare. 

Sumtymis ane laidye sochte the touir 3 

Of rych and £ayre beautye ; 
Sumtymis ane maukyn cam therin, 

Hytchyng rycht wistfullyc. 



132 THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 

But quhan they serchit the touir of Blain, 

And socht it sayre and lang, 
They fande nocht but the gude greye katt 

Sittyng thrummyng at hir sang ; 

And up scho rase and pacit hir wayis 

Full stetlye oure the stene, 
And streikit out hir braw hint-leg^ 

As nocht at all had bene. 

Weil mocht the vvyfis in that kintrye 

Rayse up ane grefous stir, 
For neuir ane katt in all the lande 

Durst moop or melle wyth hir. 

Quhaneuir theye lukit in hir fece 

Their fearis greue se ryfe, 
Theye snirtit and theye yollit throu frychte, 

And rann for dethe and lyfe. 

The lairde of Blain he had ane spouis, 
Beth cumlye, gude, and kynde ; 

But scho had gane to the landis of pece, 
And left him sadd behynde ; 

He had seuin dochteris all se fayre, 

Of mayre than yerdlye grece, 
Seuin bonnyer babis neuir braithit ayre, 

Or smyiit in parentis fece. 

Ane daye quhan theye war all alane? 
He sayde with hevye mene ; 



THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 133 

Quhat will cum of ye, my deire babis, 
Now quhan your moderis gene ? 

O quha will leide your tendyr myndis, 

The pethe of ladyhoode, 
To thynke as ladye ocht to thynke, 

And feele as mayden sholde ? 

Weil mot it kythe in maydenis mynde, 

And maydenis modestye, 
The want of hir that weil wase fit 

For taske unmeite for me ! 

But up then spak the gude greye katt 

That satt on the herthe stene, 
O hald yer tung, my deire maister, 

Nor mak se sayre ane mene ; 

For I will breide your seiiin dochteris, 

^ To winsome ladyhoode, 
To thynke as ladyis ocht to thynke, 
And feel as maydenis sholde. 

I'll breide them fayre, I'll breide them free 

From every seye of syn, 
Fayre as the blumyng roz withoute, 

And pure in herte withyn. 

Rychte sayre astoundit wase the lairde, 

Ane frychtenit man wase he ; 
But the sueite babyis war full faine, 

And chicklit joyfullye. 

N 



134 THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 

May Ella tooke the gude greye katt 

Rychte fondley on hir knee, 
And hethe my pussye lernit to speike I 

I troue scho lernit of me. 

The katt, scho thrummyt at hir sang, 

And turnit hir haffet sleike, 
And drewe hir bonnye bassenyt side, 

Against the babyis cheike. 

But the lairde he wase ane cunnyng lairde, 
And he saide with spechis fayre, 

I haif a feste in hall to nychte, 
Sweite pussye, be you there. 

The katt scho set ane luke on him, 
That turnit his herte til stene ; 

If you haif feste in hall to nychte, 
I shall be there for ane. 

The feste was laide, the tabil spread 

With rych and nobil store, 
And there wase set the Byschope of Blain, 

With all his holy kore ; 

He was ane wyce and wylie wychte 

Of wytch and warlockrye, 
And mony ane wyfe had byrnit to coome, 

Or hangit on ane tre. 

He kenit their merkis and molis of hell, 
And made them joifully 



THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 135 

Ryde on the reid-het gad of em, 
Ane plesaunt sycht to se. 

The Byschope saide ane holye grace, 

Unpatiente to begyn, 
But nathyng of the gude greye katt 

Wase funde the touir withyn ; 

But in there cam ane fayre ladye, 

Cledd in the sylken sheene, 
Ane winsumer and bonny er may 

On yerde was neuir seene ; 

Scho tuke her sete at tabil heide, 

With courtlye modestye, 
Quhill ilken bosome byrnit with lufe 

And waulit ilken ee." 

Sweite wase hir voyce to all the ryng, 

Unlesse the Laird of Blain, 
For he had hearit that very voyce, 

From of his own herthe stene. 

He barrit the doris and windois fast, 

He barrit them to the jynne ; 
Now in the grece of heuin, saide he. 

Your exercyse begyn ; 

There is ne grece nor happynesse 

For my poor babyis soulis, 
Until you trye that weirdly e wytch, 

And roste hir on the colis. 



136 THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 

If this be scho, the Byschope saide, 
This beauteous cumlye may, 

It is meite I trye hir all alone 
To heire quhat scho will saye. 

No, quod the Laird, I suthelye sweire, 
None shall from this proceide, 

Until I see that wyckecl wytch 
Byrnt til ane izel reide. 

The Byschope knelit doune and prayit, 
Quhiil all their hayris did creipe ; 

And ay he hoonit and he prayit, 
Quhiil all war faste asleipe ; 

He prayit gain syn and Sauten bothe, 
And deidis of shyft and schame ; 

But all the tyme his faithful handis 
Pressit the cumlye dame. 

Weil saw the Laird, but nething saide, 

He kenit, in holye zele, 
He grepit for the merkis of hell, 

Whilk he did ken ful weile. 

And aye he pressit hir lillye hande, 

And kyssit it ferventlye, 
And prayit betweine, for och ane kynde 

And lufynge preste was he ! 

The Byschope stappit and sterted sore, 
Wyde gaipen with affrychte, 



THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 137 

For och that fayre and lillye hande 
Had turnit ane paw outrychte ! 

Ane paw with long and crukit clawis ! 

That breste of heuinlye charme, 
Had turnit til brusket of ane katt, 

Ful hayrie and ful warme ! 

And there scho satt on lang-settil, 

With een of glentyng flame, 
And theye war on the Byschope sett, 

Lyke poynter on his game. 

The Byschope turnit him runde about© 

To se quhat he mocht se, 
Scho strak ane clawe in ilken lug, 

And throu the rofe did flee. 

The katt went throu withouten stop 

Lyke schado throu the daye, 
But the greate Byschopis fleschlye forme 

Made all the rofe gif waye ; 

The silyng faldit lyke ane buke, 

The serker crashit amayne, 
And shredis and flenis of brokyn stenis 

Fell to the grunde lyke rayne. 

The braide ful mone wase up the lyft, 

The nychte wase lyke ane daye, 
As the greate Byschope tuke his jante 

Up throu the milkye-waye 5 



]38 THE GUDE GREYS KATT. 

He cryit se loude and lustilye 

The hillis and skyis war riuen ; 
Och sicken cryis war neuir hearit 

Atwene the yerde and heuin ! 

They sawe him spurryng in the ayre, 

And flynging horredlye, 
And then he prayit and sang ane saum, 

For ane fearit wycht was he ; 

But ay his waylingis fainter greue 

As the braide lyft he crossit, 
Quhill sum saide that theye hearte them still, 

And sum saide all wase loste. 

There wase ane herde on Dollar-Lawe, 

Turnyng his flockis by nychte, 
Or stealyng in ane gude haggyse 

Before the mornyng lychte, 

He hearit the cryis cum yont the heuin, 
And sawe them bethe passe bye ; 

The katt scho skreuit up hir taile 
As sayrlye pinchit to flye. 

But aye scho thrummyt at hir sang, 

Though he was sore in thrall, 
Like katt that hethe ane jollye mouse 

Gaun murryng throu the hall. 

That greye kattis sang it wase se sweete, 
As on the nychte it fell, 



THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 13$ 

The Murecokis dancit ane seuinsum ryng 
^irunde the hether bell ; 

The Foumartis jyggit by the brukis, 

The Maukinis by the kaile, 
And the Otar dancit ane minowaye 

As he gaed ouir the daile ; 

The Hnrchanis helde ane kintrye dance 

Alang the brumye knowe, 
And the gude Toop-hogg rase fra hk layre 

And ualtzit with the youe. 

Cfte (Bvzpt mtm ©ang, 

Murr, my Lorde Byschope, 

I syng to you ; 
Murr, my Lorde Byschope, 

Bawlillilu ! 
Murr, my Lorde Byschope, &c» 

That nycht ane hynde on Border syde 

Chancit at his dore to be ; 
He spyit ane greate clypse of the mone, 

And ben the house ran he ; 

He laide ane wisp upon the colis, 
t And bleue full lang and sayre, 
And rede the Belfaste Almanake, 
But the clypse it wase not there. 

Och but that hynde was sor aghaste, 
And haf to madnesse driuen, 



140 THE 6UDE GREYE KATT. 

For he thochte he hearit ane drounyng man 
Syching alangis the heuin. 

That nychte ane greate Filossifere 

Had watchit on Etnyis height, 
To merk the rysing of the sonne* 

And the blythsum mornyng lychte ; 

And all the lychtlye lynis of goude, 

As on the se they fell, 
And watch the fyir and the smoke, 

Cum rummilyng up fra hell. 

He luket este, the daye cam on, 

Upon his gladsum pethe, 
And the braid mone bang in the west, 

Her palenesse was lyke dethe ; 

And by her sat ane littil stern, 

Quhan all the laife war gane, 
It was lyke ane wee fadyng geme 

In the wyde world its lane. 

Then the Filossofere was sadde, 

And he turnit his ee awaye, 
For they mindit him of the yerdlye greate, 

In dethe or in decaye ; 

He turnit his face unto the north, 

The fallying teare to drie, 
And he spyit ane thyng of wondrous maike, 

Atweine the yerde and skie ; 



THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 141 

It wase lyke ane burd withoutten wyng, 

Rychte wonderous to beholde, 
And it bure ane forked thyng alang, 

With swiftnesse manyfolde : 

But ay it greue as neare it dreue — 

.As hearte bete wondir sayre ! 
The sonne, the mone, and sternis war gaine, 

He thochte of them ne mayre, 
Quhan he beheld ane jollye preste 

Cumyng swyggyng throu the ayre. 

The katt scho held him by the lugis 

Atour the ausum hole, 
And och the drede that he was in 

Wase mayre than man colde thole ; 

He cryit, O Pussie, hald your gryp, 

O hald and dinna spaire ; 
O drap me in the yerde or se, y 

But dinna drap me there. 

But scho wase ane doure and deidlye katt, 
And scho saide with lychtsum ayre, 

You kno heuin is ane blissit piece, 
And all the prestis gang there. 

Och sweete, sweete Pussye, hald your gryp, 

Spaire nouther cleke nor clawe. 
Is euir that lyke heuin abone, 

In quhich am lyke to fa' ? 



142 THB GUDE GREYE KATT. 

And ay scho hang him by the lugis 

Abone the ausum den, 
Till he fande the gryp rive slowlye out, 

Sore was he quakyng then ! 

Down went the Byschope, down lyke leide, 

Into the hollow nychte, 
His goune was flapyng in the ayre, 

Quhan he wase out of sychte. 

They hearit him honyng down the deep, 

Till the croone it dyit awaye, 
It was like the stoune of ane greate bom-be 

Gaun soundyng throu the daye* 

All wase in sloomeryng quietnesse, 

Quhan he went doune to hell, 
But seckn an hour was neuir seine, 

Quhan the gude lorde Byschope fell 

Then cam the smouder and the smoke 

Up roschyng vilentlye, 
And it tourackit awaye til heuin 

Ane gloryous sychte to se ; 

For ay it rowed its fleecye curlis 

Out to the rysing sonne, 
And the estern syde was gildit goude, 

And all the westlin dunne. 

Then the Filossofere was muvit, 
And he wist not quhat till say, 



THE GUBE GREYE KATT. 143 

For he saw nochte of the gude Greye Katt, 
But he saw ane ladye gay. 

Hir goune wase of the gress-grene sylk, 

And hir ee wase lyke the deue, 
And hir hayre wase lyke the threidis of goude 

That runde hir shouderis fleue. 

Hir gairtenis war the raynbowis heme, 

That scho tyit anethe hir knee, 
And ay she kemit hir yellow hayre, 

And sang full plesauntlye. 

" I am the Queene of the Fairy Land, 

I'll do ne harme to thee, 
For I am tbe gardian of the gude, 

Let the wycked be waur of me. 

There ar seuin pearlis in yonder touir, 

Their number sune shall wane ; 
There are seuin flouris in fayre Scotland, 

I'll pu them ane by ane ; 

And the weeist burd in all the bouir 

Shall be the last thatis taene ; 
The Laird of Blain hethe seuin dochteris, 

But sune he shall haif nane. 

I'll bathe them all in the krystal streime 

Throu the Fairy Land that flouis, 
I'll seike the bouris of paradyce 

For the bonnyest flouir that blouis, 



144 THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 

And I'll distil it in the deue 

That fallis cm the hillis of heuin, 

And the hues that luvelye angelis weire 
Shall to these maidis be giuen. 

And I'll trie how luvelye and how fayre 

Their forms may be to see, 
And I'll trie how pure the maydenis mynde 

In this ill worild may be." 

The Laird of Blain he walkis the wode, 

But he walkis it all alane ; 
The Laird of Blain had seuin dochteris, 

But now he hethe not ane. 

They neuir war on dethbed layde, 

But they elyit all awaye ; 
He lost his babyis ane by ane 

Atweene the nychte and day. 

He kend not quhat to thynk or saye, 

Or quhat did him beseime, 
But he walkit throu this weirye worild 

Lyke ane thatis in a dreime. 

Quhan seuin lang yearis, and seuin lang daies, 

Had slowlye cumit and gane, 
He walkit throu the gude grene wode, 

And he walkit all alane ; 

He turnit his fece unto the skie, 
And the teire stude in his ee> 



THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 145 

For he thocht of the ladye of his lufe, 
And his lost familye : 

But ay his fayth was firm and sure, 

And his truste in heuin still, 
For he hopet to meite them all agayne 

Beyonde the reiche of ill ; 

And ay the tieris fell on the grene, 

As he knelit downe to praye, 
But he vvase se muvit with tendirnesse 

That ane worde he colde not saye. 

He lukit oure his left shouldir 

To se quhat he mocht se ; 
There he behelde seuin bonnye maydis 

Cumyng tryppyng oure the le ! 

Sic beautye ee had neuir seine, 

Nor euir agayne shall se, 
Sic luvelye formis of flesche and blude, 

On yerde can neuir be ; 

The joie that bemit in iiken ee 

Wase lyke the risyng sonne, 
The fayriste blumis in all the wode 

Besyde their formis war dunne ; 

There wase ane wrethe on ilken heide, 

On ilken bosome thre, 
And the brychtest flouris the worild er sa\T 

War noddy ng oure the bre. 
O 



146 THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 

But cese yer strayne, my gude auld herpe, 

O cese and syng ne mayre ! 
Gin ye wolde of that meityng tell, 

O I mocht reue it sayre ! 

There wolde ne ee in faire Scotland, 

Nor luvelye cheike be drie ; 
The laveroke wolde forget hir sang, 

And drap deide fra the skie ; 

And the desye wolde ne mayre be quhyte, 
And the lillye wolde chainge hir heue, 

Far the blude-drapis wolde fall fra the mone, 
And reiden the mornyng deue. 

But quhan I tell ye oute my tale, 

Ful playnle ye will se, 
That quhare there is ne syn nor schame 

Ne sorroue there can be. 



ENB OF THE GUDE GREYE KATT. 



ISABELLE. 



wvwvvwvw 



Can there be a moon in heaven to-night, 
That the hill and the grey cloud seem so light ? 
The air is whiten'd by some spell, 
For there is no moon, I know it well ; 
On this third day, the sages say, 
('Tis wonderful how well they know,) 
The moon is journeying far away, 
Bright somewhere in a heaven below. 

It is a strange and lovely night, 
A greyish pale, but not white ! 
Is it rain, or is it dew, 
That falls so thick I see its hue ? 
In rays it follows, one, two, three, 
Down the air so merrily, 
Said Isabelle, so let it be ! 

Why does the Lady Isabelle 
Sit in the damp and dewy dell 



148 ISABELLE. 

Counting the racks of drizzly rain, 

And how often the Rail cries over again I 

For she's harping, harping in the brake, 

Craik, craik Craik, craik. 

Ten times nine, and thrice eleven ; — 
That last call was an hundred and seven, 
Craik, craik — the hour is near — 
Let it come, I have no fear ! 
Yet it is a dreadful work, I wis, 
Such doings in a night like this ! 

Sounds the river harsh and loud ? 
The stream sounds harsh, but not loud. 
There is a cloud that seems to hover, 
By western hill the church-yard over, 
What is it like ? — 'Tis like a whale ; 
'Tis like a shark with half the tail, 
Not, half, but third and more ; 
Now 'tis a wolf, and now a boar ; 
It's face is raised — it cometh here ; 
Let it come — there is no fear. 
There's two for heaven, and ten for hell, 
Let it come — 'tis w r ell — 'tis well ! 
Said the Lady Isabelle. 

What ails that little cut-tail'd whelp, 
That it continues to yelp, yelp ? 
Yelp, yelp, and it turns its eye 
Up to the tree and half to the sky, 
Half to the sky and full to the cloud, 
And still it whines and barks aloud. 
Why I should dread I cannot tell ; 
There is a spirit ; I know it well ! 



ISABELLE. 14$ 

I see it in yon fallling beam — 

Is it a vision, or a dream ? 

It is no dream, full well I know, 

I have a woful deed to do ! 

Hush, hush, thou little murmurer ; 

I tell thee hush — the dead are near ! 

If thou knew'st all, poor tail-less whelp, 
Well might' st thou tremble, growl, and yelp ; 
But thou know'st nothing, hast no part, 
(Simple and stupid as thou art) 
Save gratitude and truth of heart. 
But they are coming by this way 
That have been dead for a year and a day ; 
Without challenge, without change, 
They shall have their full revenge ! 
They have been sent to wander in woe 
In the lands of flame, and the lands of snow ; 
But those that are dead 
Shall the green sward tread, 
And those that are living 
Shall soon be dead ! 
None to pity them, none to help ! 
Thou may'st quake, my cut-taiFd whelp ! 

There are two from the grave 
That I fain would save ; 
Full hard is the weird 
For the young and the brave ! 
Perchance they are rapt in vision sweet, 
While the passing breezes kiss their feet ; 
And they are dreaming of joy and love !«— 
Well, let them go— there's room above. 
o 2 



150 ISABELLE. 

There are three times three, and three to these, 
Count as you will, by two's or three's ; 
Three for the gallows, and three for the wave, 
Three to roast behind the stone, 
And three that shall never see the grave 
Until the day and the hour are gorie ! 
For retribution is mine alone ! 
The cloud is redder in its hue, 
The hour is near, and vengeance due ; 
It cannot, and it will not fail, — 
'Tis but a step to Borrowdale ! 
Why should'st thou love and follow me, 
Poor faithful thing ? I pity thee ! 

Up rose the Lady Isabelle, 
I may not of her motion tell, 
Yet thou may'st look upon her frame ; 
Look on it with a passing eye, 
But think not thou upon the same, 
Turn away, and ask not why ; 
For if thou darest look again, 
Mad of heart, and seared of brain, 
Thou shalt never look again ! 

What can ail that short-tail'd whelp ? 
'Tis either behind or far before, 
And it hath changed its whining yelp 
To a shorten'd yuff — its little core 
Seems bursting with terror and dismay, 
Yuff, yuff, — hear how it speeds away. 
Hold thy peace, thou yemering thing, 
The very night-wind's slumbering, 



ISABELLE. 151 

And thou wilt wake to woe and pain 
Those that must never wake again. 

Meet is its terror and its flight, 
There's one on the left and two on the ri^ht ! 
But save the paleness of the face, 
All is beauty, and all is grace ! 
The earth and air are tinged with blue ; 
There are no footsteps in the dew ; 
Is this to wandering spirits given, 
Such stillness on the face of heaven ? 
The fleecy clouds that sleep above, 
Are like the wing of beauteous dove, 
And the leaf of the elm-tree does not move ! 
Yet they are coming ! and they are three ! 
Jesu ! Maria ! can it be ! 



THE CONCLUSION. 



vvxivwwvvw 



Sleep on, fair maiden of Borrowdale ! 

Sleep ! O sleep ! and do not wake. 

Dream of the dance, till the foot so pale, 

And the beauteous ancle shiver and shake ; 

Till thou shalt press, with feeling bland, 

Thine own fair breast for lover's hand. 

Thy heart is light as summer breeze, 

Thy heart is joyous as the day ; 

Man never form of angel sees, 

But thou art fair as they ! 

So lovers ween, and so they say, 

So thine shall ween for many a day ! 

The hour's at hand, O woe is me ! 

For they are coming, and they are three J 



THE CHERUB. 



VWVWWVVW 



Was it not lovely to behold 
A Cherub come down from the sky, 
A beauteous thing of heavenly mould, 
With ringlets of the wavy gold, 
Dancing and floating curiously ? 
To see it come down to the earth 
This beauteous thing of heavenly birth 1 
Leaving the fields of balm and bliss, 
I o dwell m such a world as this ! 

I heard a maiden sing the while, 
A strain so holy it might beguile 
An angel from the radiant spheres, 
1 hat have swum in light ten thousand years : 
1 en times ten thousand is too few— 
Child of heaven, can this be true ! 
And then I saw that beauteous thin? 
Slowly from the clouds descending 
Brightness, glory, beauty blending, 



156 THE CHERUE. 

In the mid air hovering. 

It had a halo round its head, 

It was not of the rainbow's hue* 

For in it was no shade of blue, 

But a beam of amber mixed with red, 

Like that which mingles in the ray 

A little after the break of day. 

Its raiment was the thousand dyes 

Of flowers in the heavenly paradise ; 

Its track a beam of the sun refined, 

And its chariot was the southern wind ; 

My heart danced in me with delight, 

And my spirits mounted at the sight, 

And 1 said within me it is well ; 

But where the bower, or peaceful dell, 

Where this pure heavenly thing may dwell ? 

Then I bethought me of the place, 

To lodge the messenger of grace ; 

And I chose the ancient sycamore, 

And the little green by Greta's shore ; 

It is a spot so passing fair, 

That sainted thing might sojourn there. 

Go tell yon stranger artizan, 
Build as quickly as he can. 
Heaven shield us from annoy t 
What shall form this dome of joy ? 
The leaf of the rose would be too rude. 
For a thing that is not flesh and blood ; 
The walls must be of the sunny air, 
And the roof the silvery gossamer, 
And all the ceiling, round and round, 
Wove half of light, and half of sound ; 



THE CHERUB. 157 

The sounds must be the tones that fly 

From distant harp, just ere they die ; 

And the light the moon's soft midnight ray, 

When the cloud is downy, and thin, and grey. 

And such a bower of light and love, 

Of beauty, and of harmonie, 

In earth below, or heaven above, 

No mortal thing shall ever see. 

The dream is past, it is gone away ! 
The rose is blighted on the spray. 
I look behind, I look before, 
The happy vision is no more ! 
But in its room a darker shade 
Than eye hath pierced, or darkness made ; 
1 cannot turn, yet do not know, 
What I would, or whither go ; 
But I have heard, to heart of sin, 
A small voice whispering within, 
'Tis all I know, and all I trust, — 
" That man is weak, but God is just." 



END OF THE CHERUB. 



PETER OF BARNET. 



WWWVWVW 



Peter of Barnet — know'st thou such a man ? 
5 Tis meet thou should'st, for he's a manual 
Which one may ever read, — I love old Peter ! 
Not for his genius or stupendous science, 
For he has neither ; while his outward man, 
Mien, word, and manner, has no other gloss 
Than that the stubborn hand of Nature framed 
By mallet and by chisel, — but he is 
A character distinct, — I ever love 
A man that is so, — many have I known, 
And many studied with poetic eye. 

Peter is one — the slave of keen sensation. 
So obviously affected is his heart, 
By that he hears and sees, that passion there 
Holds everlasting coil, — farther than these, 
Peter makes no research, — they are enough 
For any heart to brook. I oft have weened, 
If Peter neither saw nor heard, he would 
Be happier than he is. — What boy is that, 
At whom you scold so much, said I, good Peter ? 



16© PETER OF BARNET. 






S, 



Rascal ! said he, — he is as great a knave 
As wags beneath the sun, — a saucy knave, 
Whom I have reared and nourished as my own. 
His mother was a vagrant — no good dame 
I ween was she — She came unto my house 
One rainy summer eve, followed by him, 
That naughty rogue — a little urchin then, 
Not five years old — Brown with the sun he was, 
And ragged as a colt ! — his head was bare, 
And weather-beaten like the tufted moss. 

Far, far behind he lagged, for he was lame, 
And sore bedraggled, — by his foot still kept 
A little dog, his fellow traveller 
And bosom friend. — I felt I wot not how 
For the young imp, for he came wading on 
Through mud and mire, halting most wofully. 
The guttered road his soal might not imprint, 
For it was wounded, — but with dexterous skill 
He placed his foot on edge, and ambled thus. 

Then Peter walked across the field and back 
With awkward limp, to show me how the boy 
Walked out the way, — the fancy pleased him 

much, 
For ever and anon he laughed at it, 
And yet the tear was pacing down his cheek. 
'Twas just this way he walked, poor soul, said 

Peter ; 
And then, with turned-up foot, and gait oblique, 
Again he halted lamely o'er the ridge, 
Laughing with shrilly voice, and all the while 
Wiping his eyes. — I thought I saw, said Peter, 



PETER OF BA1NET. 161 

An independence in the child's blue eye, 
A soul that seemed determined to outbrave 
Reproach and sufferance, — and to work his way 
Throughout the world, though scarce a ray of 

hope 
Lay onward to allure or beckon him. 

His supper with his faithful dog he shared ; 
To that alone he talked, nor heeded once 
The tattle of the menials who assailed him. 
Soon he was sound asleep ; his dumb companion, 
With head laid on his little master's breast, 
Fell sound as he. — O it was such a picture 
Of generous friendship as I ne'er again 
Shall look upon ! — Then Peter sobbed full hard, 
And told it o'er again, — and then he laid 
His head upon his shoulder, — stopped his breath 
To shortened pant, and with an open mouth, 
And face ludicrously demure, he showed me 
The way the poor boy slept, and how the dog ! 
I could not chuse but laugh, and so did Peter ; 
For he assured me there was never aught 
On earth seen like it, — then a second time 
He sniff 'd in mimic sleep, while from his breast 
Issued a feeble dreaming sound of plaint. 
That was the very way they slept, said Peter, 
I thought my heart would burst, — yet she, his 

mother, # 

Ne'er look'd at them, — not she, — she heeded not* 

I could not sleep a wink that night, said Peter, 
Nor could I think of aught but the poor boy, 
The little ragged pilgrim of the world ! 
p 2 



162 PETER OF BARNET. 

Poor devil ! said I, a hundred times I ween 
And more, — and then I turned ! and turned ! and 

turned ! 
I sighed a prayer for the unfortunate, 
And tried to think of others in distress. 
I thought that many a fair and comely mother 
Shed the salt tear o'er an unfathered boy, 
Who, all unconscious, lay upon her breast, 
His only shelter, while, alas ! that breast 
And beauteous head, no shelter had at all ! 
I tried such things to ponder, — 'twas in vain I 
My thoughts were on the boy. — I saw him still ! 
The little, sun-burnt, naked ragamuffin ! 
His round red lip and independent eye ! 
The tiny conscript on the field of life, 
The veteran of eternity ! — I wept — 
And turned ! and turned ! — Good God ! said I, 

what's this ! 

His tale was never ended, nor would mine 
Should I go on, and deftly follow him 
Through every maze of feeling, — but the boy 
Lives with old Peter, — they have never parted, 
Nor ever will till death shall sunder them ; 
And on my troth, when my old head is laid 
Low in the dust, said Peter, I do think 
There is not one alive will miss me more, 
Or think of me so much as that young knave. 
Nor shall he then be destitute, or forced 
To prowl in desperate guise throughout the 

world. 
He's a dear boy ! a noble generous boy ! 
But I have spoiled him — all my folk are spoile* 



PETER OF BARNET. 163 

This is most true, — I walked with Peter forth 
Across the winter field, where his one hind 
Drew the long furrow, who with lengthened do 
And hie vociferous urged on his steeds, 
And gave harsh tones unto the chilly gale. 

It chanced that on the cold wet field we found 
A mountain daisy blooming all alone. 
I paused, and spoke of Burns, the Scottish bard. 
Peter had heard the name. — I then- conned o'er 
The lines unto the Daisy in a tone 
Most tender and affecting. — Peter looked 
As he would look me through, — he could not ween 
Of feeling for a flower, and yet he felt 
A kind of sympathy, that overpowered 
All his philosophy. — He took a stone, 
And placed it tall on end. — Herbert, said he, 
When thou plough'st down this ridge, spare me 

this flower. 
I charge thee note it well, — and for thy life 
Do it no injury. — Pugh ! said the clown, 
Such stuff ! — I shall not mind it — He went on 
Whistling his tune, — Oh Peter was most wroth ! 
He run in hasty guise around, and looked 
For a convenient stone, that he might throw 
And smite the ploughman's head. — No one would 

suit. 
Then, turning round to me, he gave full vent 
To's rage against the hind, and all was o'er. 
In his first heat, he cursed the menial race ; 
I told you they were all alike, said he, 
A most provoking and ungracious set ; 
(Peter had never told me such a thing.) 



164 PETER OF BARNET. 






*, 



Now did you ever see a wretch like that ? 
He's a good workman, and he knows it well, 
But not one thing that I desire of him 
Will he perform. — I'm an old fool, 'tis true, 
But yet methinks the man that eats my bread 
Might somewhat humour me. — 1 thought so too. 
But, ah ! said Peter, when I think of this, 
The freedom of the will, by man so valued, 
Is not his own ! — and that how proud he is 
Sometimes to show it, then I give it him ; 
And when I do, I have not cause to rue. 
What a discerning learned man is Peter ! 
He's nature's genuine plain philosopher. 

That night, at board, Peter sat silent long, 
Thoughtful he was.— I think I've heard, said he, 
That Burns, of whom you spake, was a bad man, 
A man of the most vicious, tainted mind, 
Fit to corrupt an age. — Was it not so ? 

Alas ! said I, never was man abused 
So much as he ! — He was a good man, Peter ; 
A man of noble independent mind, 
So high, that wealth's low minions envied it ; 
Exerting all their malice to assail 
His only part that was assailable. 
Keen were his feelings and his passions strong, 
Such as your own — The vantage ground was 

gained. 
The foes of genius came, in social guise, 
Luring to gusts of blindful levity 
The bard that sore relented. — These were blabbed 
With tenfold zest, until the injured heart 



PETER OF BARNET. 165 

Of genius was wrung — It broke ! — and then 
The foes of humble and inherent worth, 
O how they triumphed o'er the Poet's dust ! 

D — n them ! said Peter, — he thrust back his 
chair, 
Dashed one knee o'er the other furiously, 
Took snuff a double portion, — swallowed down 
His glass at once, — looked all around the room 
With wrathful eye, and then took snuff again. 

I love old Peter ! I would rather see 
Nature's strong workings in the human breast, 
Than list the endless dogmas which define 
Their operations and existing springs. 
Peter's a living representative, 
A glossary to many terms that stand 
In fair-cast characters upon the page 
Of the philosopher, — in other form 
To him unknown. — But these are fading all ; 
Impressed themselves, they no impression leave ; 
Peter's a stereotype, — that for an age 
Will momently throw bold impressions off, 
Ever demonstrative, and ever new. 
When next I visit him, I'll copy forth 
One other page from nature's manual. 



END OF PETER OF BARNET. 



CARMEN JUDICIALE. 



THB 



CURSE OF THE LAUREATE. 



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CJLRMEN JUBICIALE. 



1. 

In vale of Thirlemere, once on a time, 

When birds sung sweet and flowers were in 
the spring, 
While youth and fancy wanton'd in their prime, 

I laid me down in happy slumbering ; 
The heavens in balmy breezes breathed deep, 
My senses all were lulPd in grateful, joyous 
sleep. 

2. 
Sleep had its visions — fancy all un sway 'd, 
Revell'd in fulness of creative power : 
I ween'd that round me countless beings stray'd, 

Things of delight, illusions of an hour ; 
So great the number of these things divine, 
Scarce could my heart believe that all the imps 
were mine. 



170 CARMEN JUDICIALE. 



3. 

Yet mine they were, all motley as they moved ; 
Careless I viewed them, yet I loved to view ; 
The world beheld them, and the world ap- 
proved, 
And blest the train with smiles and plaudits 
due; 
Proud of approval, to myself I said, 
From out the group I'll chuse, and breed one fa- 
vourite maid. 

4. 
Joan I chose, a maid of happy mien ; 

Her form and mind I polished with care ; 
A docile girl she proved, of moping vein, 

Slow in her motions, haughty in her air ; 
Some mention'd trivial blame, or slightly frown'd; 
Forth to the world she went, her heavenly birth 
it own'd. 

5. 
The next, a son, I bred a Mussulman ; 

With creeds and dogmas I was hard bestede, 
For which was right or wrong I could not tell, 

So I resolved my offspring should be bred 
As various as their lives— the lad I loved, 
A boy of wild unearthly mein he proved. 

6. 
Then first I noted in my mazy dream 

A being scarcely of the human frame, 
A tiny thing that from the north did seem, 



CARMEN JUDICIALE. 171 

With swaggering, fuming impotence he came ; 
I fled not, but I shudder'd at his look ; 
Into his tutelage my boy he took. 

7. 
Each principle of truth and purity, 

And all that merited the world's acclaim, 
This fiend misled — nor could I ever free 

From his destroying grasp my darling's fame ; 
But yet I could not ween that heart of gall 
Could be a foe to one, whose heart beat kind to all. 

8. 
My third, a Christian and a warrior true, 

A bold adventurer on foreign soil, 
And next, his brother, a supreme Hindu, 

I rear'd with hope, with joy, and painful toil. 
Alas ! my hopes were vain ! I saw them both 
Reft by an emmet ! — crush'd before a moth I 

9. 
Still could I not believe his vengeful spite, 

For in his guise a speciousness appear'd ; 
My bitterness of heart I feigned light ; 

But wholly as he urged my next I rear'd ; 
He said of all the gang he was the best, 
And wrung his neck before mine eyes in jest. 

10. 
From that time forth an independent look, 

A bold effrontery I did essay ; 
But of my progeny no pains I took, 

Like lambs I rear'd them for the lion's prey 5 



172 CARMEN JUD1CIALE. 

And still as playful forth they pass'd from me, 
I saw them mock'd and butcher'd wantonly. 

11. 
" Just heaven I" said I, " to thy awards I bow, 

For truth and vengeance are thine own alone ; 
Are these the wreaths thou deignest to bestow 

On bard, whose life and lays to virtue prone, 
Have never turn'd aside on devious way ? 
Is this the high reward, to be of fools the prey V* 

12. 
A laugh of scorn the welkin seem'd to rend, 

And by my side I saw a form serene ; 
" Thou bard of honour, virtue's firmest friend," 
He said, a can'st thou thus fret ? or dost thou 
ween 
That such a thing can work thy fame's decay ? 
Thou art no fading bloom — no flow'ret of a day ! 

13. 
" When his o'erflowings of envenom'd spleen 
An undistinguish'd dunghill mass shall lie, 
The name of Southey, like an ever-green, 
Shall spread, shall blow, and flourish to the 
sky! 
To Milton and to Spencer next in fame, 
O'er all the world shall spread thy laurell'd name." 

14. 
a Friend of the bard," I said, " behold thou hast 
The tears of one I love o'er blushes shed ; 



CARMEN JUDIC1ALE. 173 

Has he not wrung the throb from parent's heart, 
And stretch'd his hand to reave my children's 
bread ? 
For every tear that on their cheeks hath shone, 

may that Aristarch with tears of blood atone !" 

15. 

" If cursing thou delight'st in," he replied, 
" If rage and execration is thy meed, 

Mount the tribunal — Justice be thy guide, 
Before thee shall he come his rights to plead ; 

To thy awards his fate forthwith is given, 

Only, be justice thine, the attribute of heaven." 

16. 
Gladly I mounted, for before that time 

Merit had crown'd me with unfading bays. 
Before me was brought in that man of crime, 

Who with unblushing front his face did raise ; 
But when my royal laurel met his sight, 
He pointed with his thumb, and laughed with all 
his might. 

17. 
Maddening at impudence so thoroughbred, 
I rose from off my seat with frown severe, 

1 shook my regal sceptre o'er his head — 
"Hear, culprit, of thy crimes, and sentence 

hear ! 
Thou void of principle ! of rule ! of ruth ! 
Thou renegade from nature and from truth ! 
Q2 



174 CARMEN JUDICIAL^. 



18. 
u Thou bane of genius ! — party's sordid slave ! 

Mistaken, perverse, crooked is thy mind ! 
No humble son of merit thou wilt save, 

Truth, virtue, ne'er from thee did friendship 
find; 
And while of freedom thou can*st fume and rave, 
Of titles, party, wealth, thou art the cringing 
slave ! 

19. 
Thou hast renounced nature for thy guide, 

A thousand times hast given thyself the lie, 
And raised thy party-curs to wealth and pride, 

The very scavengers of poetry. 
Thy quibbles are from ray of sense exempt, 
Presumptuous, pitiful, below contempt ! 

20. 
" Answer me, viper ! here do I arraign 

Thy arrogant, self-crowned majesty ! 
Hast thou not prophesied of dole and pain, 

Weakening the arms of nations and of me ? 
Thou foe of order ! — Mercy lingers sick — 
False prophet ! Canker ! Damned heretick l n 

21. 
Then pointing with my sceptre to the sky, 

With vehemence that might not be restraint, 
I gave the awful curse of destiny ! 

I was asleep, but sore with passion pain'd. 



GARMEN JUDICIALE. 175 

It was a dreadful curse ; and to this day, 
Even from my waking dreams it is not worn 
away. 

May heaven and earth, 
And hell underneath, 
Unite to unsting thee 
In horrible wrath. 
May scorning surround thee, 
And conscience astound thee, 
High genius o'erpower, 
And the devil confound thee. 
The curse be upon thee 
In pen and in pocket, 
Thy ink turn to puddle, 
And gorge in the socket ; 
Thy study let rats destroy. 
Vermin and cats annoy, 
Thy base lucubrations 
To tear and to gnaw, 
Thy false calculations 
In Empire and Law. 
The printers shall harass, 
The devils shall dun thee, 
The trade shall despise thee, 
And C— t — e shun thee. 
The judge shall not hear thee, 
But frown and pass by thee, 
And clients shall fear thee, 



176 CARMEN JUDICIALE. 

And know thee, and fly thee ! 
I'll hunt thee, I'll chase thee, 
To scorn and deride thee, 
The cloud shall not cover, 
The cave shall not hide thee ; 
The scorching of wrath 
And of shame shall abide thee, 
Till the herbs of the desert 
Shall wither beside thee. 
Thou shalt thirst for revenge 
And misrule, as for wine, 
But genius shall flourish ! 
And royalty shine ! 
And thou shalt remain 
While the Laureate doth reign, 
With a fire in thy heart, 
And a fire in thy brain, 
And Fame shall disown thee 
And visit thee never, 
And the curse shall be on thee 
For ever and ever ! 



END OF CARMEN JUDICIALE. 






THE MORNING STAR, 



OR 



THE STEAM-BOAT OF ALLOA. 



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O blessed thing of calm delight, 

Art thou a phantom of the night, 

That slumber'st by the lonely strand, 

Dreaming of breezes from Fairy Land ? 

Well, glorious creature, may'st thou lie 

Smiling on the refulgent sky, 

For thy heart is calm and motionless, 

And the stars shall view thee soon 

Sailing in conscious blessedness, 

Thou sister of the Moon, 

And every garden of the deep, 

And orb that shines above, 

Shall see thee gliding swift as sleep, 

In holiness and love ! 



178 THE MORNING STAR. 

Over the scarcely touched wave, 

Along the homeless sea ;~ 

O world of waters, the peaceful grave 

Ne'er lay entranced like thee I 

The Moon hath bidden her radiance fall 

On thy rainbow form and viewless wings, 

And the heavenly voice of the rocking sea, 

In everlasting melody, 

To cheer the vision sings. 

And well, loved vessel, may'st thou glide, 
Calm onward without breeze or tide, 
With steadfast and unaltered motion, 
Along the bright and starry ocean ; 
For in thy bosom's inmost cells 
Some self-impelling spirit dwells, 
And thy majestic form is driven 
Along the slumbering sea, 
As on the peaceful soul of heaven, 
Unto Eternity. 

And well I know, to a land afar 
Thy course is bent, loved Morning Star! 
To a blessed haven far away, 
Where the mines are deep, and the shores are grey, 
Where human things of the loveliest hue, 
Dark as the veil o'er the midnight dew, 
Toil in the central deep, intent 
To supply one sacred element, 
Who in their hush'd and dim abode 
For ever dwell upon their God 1 



THE MORNING STAR. 179 

Bright creature ! harbinger of love, 
In earth below, and heaven above, 
How many an anxious eye at morn 
Will look from the beach where thou wast borne, 
To mark thy stately form afar, 
And hail the approach of the Morning Star ? 
And still their faith with tranced eye, 
Shall dwell upon the moonlight sky, 
Then turn to the mellow sea beneath, 
Serene and calm as heaven's own breath. 

Thou magic journeycr of the even, 
Thou self-moved messenger of heaven ! 
Over the wave, and the still moon-beam, 
Or downward in the troubled deep, 
Murmuring like giant in a dream, 
Or distant thunder, when the gleam 
Of fire plays o'er a world asleep ! 

thou art bright with beauty and grace I 
With many a collier's lovely face, 

And forms of holiest joy to man, 
Of radiant glorious courtezan ; 
Those precious things of heaven above, 
Whom men and saints and angels love ! 

A lovelier vision one of these, 
Than ever journeyed the moonlight seas, 

1 now behold upon the prow, 
With eyes fixed on the wave below ; 
So beautiful and calm she seems, 

As if her thoughts were heavenly dreams ! 
One dark fond youth still clings to her, 
And their shadows never, never stir, 



180 THE MORNING STAR. 

Save that upon the heaving billow, 
The robe of that most lovely thing 
Is moving like the gentle willow 
Above some sainted spring ! 

And they are gone, the beauteous twain ! 
I look to the prow, but I look in vain ! 
For they are vanished into the deep, 
In some dark central dome to sleep ; 
In some sweet coal-besprinkled cell, 
In love, and peace, and joy, to dwell ; 
And my soul devotes her music wild, 
To one who is scarce an earthly child. 
Softly they lean on each other's breast, 
In holy bliss reposing, 
Like two fair clouds to the vernal air 
In folds of beauty closing. 
The tear down their glad faces rolls, 
And a silent prayer is in their souls ; 
And Faith, who oft had lost her power 
In the darkness of the midnight hour, 
When the planets had rolled afar, 
Now stirs in their souls with a joyful strife, 
Embued with a genial spirit of life, 
In the breast of the Morning Star. 

O beauteous thing ! thou seem'st to me 
So full of love and harmony, 
That thou bestow'st a loveliness, 
A deeper, holier quietness, 
On the moonlight heaven, and ocean hoar, 
Than eye of Faith e'er viewed before. 



THE MORNING STAR. 181 

Through the still fount of tears and sighs, 

And human sensibilities, 

Well may the moon delight to shed 

Her softest radiance round that head, 

And mellow the coal and the ocean air, 

That lifts by fits her sable hair. 

These mild and melancholy eyes 

Are dear unto the starry skies, 

As the dim effusion of their rays 

Blends with the glimmering Jir-ht that plays 

O'er the blue heavens, and snowy clouds, 

The cloud-like sails, and radiant shrouds. 

Fair creature ! thou dost seem to be 
Some Wandering spirit of the sea, 
That hither com'st for one wild hour, 
With him thy sinless paramour, 
To watch while wearied sailors sleep, 
This beautiful phantom of the deep, 

That seemed to rise, with the rising Moon 

But the Queen of Night will be sinking soon i 
Then will you, like two breaking waves, 
Sink softly to your coral caves, 
Or, noiseless as the falling dew, 
Melt into Heaven's delicious blue. 

Nay wrong her not, that angel bright ! 
Her face is bathed in lovelier "light 
Than ever flow'd from eyes 
Of ocean nymph, or sylph of air ! 
The tearful gleam that trembles there 
From human dreams must rise. 
R 



182 THE MORNING STAR. 

And who is he that fondly presses 
Close to his heart the silken tresses 
That hide her soften'd eyes ? 
Whose heart her heaving bosom meets, 
And through the midnight silence beats 
To feel her rising sighs ? 
Worthy the youth, I ween, to rest 
On the fair swellings of her breast ! 
Well do I know that stately youth, 
The broad coai-light of clouded truth 
Like a sun-beam bathes his face ; 
Though silent, an unrighteous smile 
That rests upon his eyes the while 
Bestows a speaking grace ! 
That smile hath might of magic art, 
To sway at will the stoniest heart ! 
O happy pair ! O ship of love ! 
Like incense to the realms above, 
The joys in thee that dwell. 
From thee I shall be loth to part ! 
But when I do, my lingering heart 
Will sadly say — Farewell ! 



End of the morning star. 



HYMN TO THE MOON. 



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Come forth, sweet spirit ! from thy cloudy cave, 
Far in the bosom of the starless night, 
And suddenly above the mountain-top 
Lifting thy placid beauty, ail at once 
Spread a still rapture o'er th' encircling earth, 
That seems just waking from some heavenly 
dream. 

Hail, soft-brow'd sovereign of the sea and sky ! 
Thee, heaven and all its glories worship — Thee, 
Worships old Ocean with his million waves, 
And though 'mid fleecy clouds as still as snow, 
Or the blue depths of stainless sanctity, 
Lies thy beloved way — yet often Thou 
Art seen careering on a throne of storms, 
Seemingly borne on to eternity, 
So wild the hurried glimpses of thy face, 
Perturb'd yet beautiful ! 



184 HYMN TO THE MOON. 

HearcTst thou my voice 
Stealing along the silent walls of heaven, 
And blended softly with the falling dews, 
To thine aerial tower ? and look'st thou down 
With love and pity on thy worshipper, 
Even like an angel on the humble saint 
Praying on his knees within his rocky cell ? 

Yes ! glorious as thou art and beautiful, 
Hanging upon the viewless wings of air, 
That, wide-stretch'd through the amplitude of 

space, 
Winnow fresh fragrance over earth and heaven, 
Yet art thou meek and humble as a flower 
Buried in the heart of forest solitude ! 
And there thou lingerest on the mountain-top 
Listening my song, that boasts no other charm 
Than gratitude and piety — in peace 
Conceived within my soul, and peaceful breathed 
To thee, the fountain of untroubled joy ! 

Lo ! all the loveliness of earth awakes 
To bless and do thee homage. Softly glide 
The clouds yet glowing with the crimson light 
Of the departed sun, to gird their queen 
With a fair circle of unfallen snow, 
Yet brighten'd with the innocence of heaven ! 
Within that circle, deeper than the blue, 
The tearless blue of an archangel's eye, 
Glistens the eternal sanctitude of rest — 
Out comes one single solitary star, 
One moment shining — and then melts away 
In thy o'erpowering radiance, while the heavens 



HYMN TO THE MOON. 185 

All agitated into waves of light 
Are like the ocean during breathless night6, 
Astir, yet in the swell profoundly calm, 
A type of endless, universal rest ! 

Nor is the earth beneath thee, Queen of Light ! 
Less lovely than the heavens. Thy smile creates 
A dream-like pleasure through the works of God, 
And all his blest creation seems more blest 
When looking up to thee and worshipping 
Thy shining face with faintly-murmuring songs, 
Odours as gentle as the mournful light, 
And forms by Melancholy's softest touch 
^Moulded to beauty, in their depth of rest, 
Seeming immortal and unchangeable, 
Or ever varying like the breathing mist, 
In fluctuations of profoundest peace, 
Bordering on mirth— and now in awful trance 
Like a dead countenance looking up to heaven, 
By heaven rejected. 

Lo ! thy favourite lake 
Hath thrown the mist-veil from her purest breast, 
And there thy spirit in a stream of light 
descends, as it would pierce down to the fields, 
The woods, and groves, that lie in silentness 
Beneath their lucid atmosphere of waves ! 
The lake is vanish'd — an abyss of light 
Hath swallow'd up her waves— and hast thou 

changed 
Thy habitation in the heavens, O Moon ! 
For a wild dwelling in the glitterance 
Of earth-born waters ? There thy face appears 



186 HYMN TO THE M06N. 

Smiling as in thy native element ! 
I look to heaven, and there thou art likewise— 
An apparition ! which is the true Moon 
I know not — nor can tell— what matters it ? 
Ye both are beautiful — therefore both, hail, 
Now and for ever — first, thou watery Moon, 
And then, thou Moon aerial ! haply one, 
But, whether one or two, still beautiful, 
Too beautiful by far not to be view'd, 
Waning or full, without a gush of tears ! 

Where art thou gone ? all of a sudden gone ? 
Why hast thou left thy pensive worshipper 
Sitting in the darkness on the mossy stump 
Of an old oak-tree ? — Hark ! the owl S the owl ! 
He is a living clock that tells the hour 
To visionary men who walk by nights 
Composing poesy ! and see yon star 
Twinkling upon the hill-side ! 'Tis the window 
Of my sweet cottage,— haply even now 
My Mary stirs the fire, while near the hearth 
My little babes are playing.— -Fare thee well, 
Departed Moon, and peace for ever smile 
Beside thee in thy interlunar cave ! 



END OF HYMN TO THE MOON, 



THE STRANDED SHIP. 



VWVWWVWX* 



My spirit dreams of a peaceful bay 

Where once a ship in beauty lay ! 

Floating between the waves and air, 

Each glad to claim a thing so fair. 

Her white wings to the sunshine gleaming 

In anchor'd rest — bright ensigns streaming, 

As if they wish'd away to fly 

From the proud ship which they glorify. 

—-Alas ! her wings no more expanded, 

High on the beach the ship is stranded, 

And, reft of motion, never more 

Must walk above the ocean-roar ! 

Yet the creatures of the deep, too blest 

Within their sunless caves to rest, 

In the genial warmth of upper day 

Are rolling in unwieldy play, 

Or shooting upwards through the light 

With arrowy motion silvery-bright, 



188 THE STRANDED SMir. 

The silent summer air employ 

For their region of capricious joy ! 

While fairy shells in myriads lying, 

The smooth hard sand in lustre dying, 

Encircle with a far-seen chain 

Of glory the most glorious main ! 

Glad shines the sun upon the wreck, 

Warming her cold and lifeless deck ! 

While through her shrouds with songs of love 

Birds glance like harmless lightning, 

And majestic hangs the palm-tree grove 

Her short and shatter'd mast above. 

Whose ensigns, meteor-like, did move, 

The dark-green forest brightening. 

Who thinks upon her gallant crew ? 

Oh ! far, far down in the coral caves 

O'er a hundred heads the sea-flower waves ! 

Her captain's heart hath long been cold 

In the silent night of her watery hold ! 

And a ghastly troop o'er the dim mainland, 

Where hope ne'er waved her golden wand, 

To certain death have gone ! 

They died ! — but when, or how, or where, 

Save that in famine and despair, 

By man shall ne'er be known i 



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